


Make a Shadow

by Klitch



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7488897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klitch/pseuds/Klitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fushimi Saruhiko had no soulmate. That had always been fine with him, until he met Yata Misaki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One last fic for Sarumi Fest ^^ Since I don't want to have two WIPs going for long this one will be updated pretty regularly, expect the next chapter on Tuesday provided nothing unexpected happens.

**I. Black**

In retrospect, Fushimi supposed that the first sign he had no soulmate was when his tattoo didn't appear until summer his second year of grade school.

That was rare, of course, to the point that any child with normal parents would probably have seen three specialists and multiple doctors by that time. Typically a person's soulmate tattoo appeared some time between the ages of two and four. Five was considered a late bloomer, six atypical, seven something seriously wrong.

_(Seriously wrong, and sometimes Fushimi laughed about that as he stared at his pale unmarked arms in the mirror.)_

By that time he'd already mastered the art of lying about his tattoo. It was something of an unspoken ritual on the first day of school, that at lunch time everyone would show off their arms and look for a match. The teachers allowed it of course, considering it something of a cute child's game – finding one's soulmate in grade school wasn't _unheard of,_ of course, but it was rare. Mostly the ritual was seen as a type of bonding activity amongst the students, a kind of sorting where the style and shape of your tattoo could influence which social group you spent the rest of the year and possibly the ones beyond with. Like always flocked to like, after all, and students whose tattoos formed _a_ pattern but not _the_ pattern still tended to stick close to each other, just in case.

The first day of grade school, sitting at his desk with long sleeves on watching as his classmates ran around showing off their arms, a parade of patterns and colors and him with only pale white skin, that was when Fushimi really began to realize how wrong he was.

_(Some of the children had asked to see his arms too, of course, and he'd told them to go away. The teachers had looked at him in concern and even at that age it had irritated him – soulmates were supposed to be a deep personal thing after all and yet it was considered odd not to want to wave your mark around like a flag, like the tail of a dog waiting to be petted by its master.)_

Like flocked to like, and Fushimi and his bare arms spent the rest of the year alone in the corner of the classroom, and he didn't care in the least.

The next sign was when the tattoo finally appeared.

Fushimi's had shown up one morning as a curl of dark ink around his left wrist, a strange mottled pattern which sloped along a curving line and slowly started to make its way up his left arm. Within two days there were more patterns and none had any rhyme or reason to them at all – mostly slow looping curls that ringed his arm in some places but were cut off in others, jagged edges marking their ends as if someone had sliced them in half with a knife. In other spots the curves flared out strangely, or twisted themselves into circles upon circles and ended in small dark spots. There was a mark on his wrist that started just above the vein and moved down, like a drop of black blood, and spread out tiny veins like the markings of a leaf along his wrist. The tattoo covered his entire left arm from wrist to shoulder – not too rare, most tattoos were clustered between wrist and elbow or elbow to shoulder but one that ran the full arm wasn't considered a strange thing by any means. 

The patterns, though, were ridiculous. Some soulmate tattoos came in easy, one half of a pair of feathered wings or a hand with fingers partially entwined with a second hand that would only be found on another person's arm. Most were more complicated than that, concentric circles, tiger stripes, clouds. Perfect patterns that could still be matched, could still intersect in a myriad of ways with a hundred other tattoos even if there was only the one that would fit perfectly.

The only person Fushimi had ever met with a tattoo as ridiculously complicated as his own was _that guy,_ and how his father had laughed the first day he caught sight of the markings creeping up Fushimi's arm.

_(“Maybe it just means we're meant to be together forever! Wouldn't you like that, little monkey?”_ _That was the first time Fushimi had found himself imagining taking a knife to his arm and carving the tattoo into bits, into a scattering of black strands and blood, so that he wouldn't have to match anyone ever again. The first time, but not the last.)_

The thing that had finally made him certain was the color.

Soulmate tattoos always appeared first in black. When it showed up on a person's arm – or arms, another rarity and one of the few Fushimi hadn't covered himself, and sometimes he thought that if that had been the case he would've simply had to cut one arm off to deal with it – it looked like a deep black ink stain that seeped into the skin. Every day the tattoo grew and changed until it was complete, a process that could take up to a week. It would normally be within two days after that when the color would begin to change.

Some tattoos stayed black, dark and deep and striking against the right skin tone, but most changed into a single solid color. In Fushimi's grade school class alone there were multiple reds, blues, pinks and purples and oranges, a bright sunflower yellow and a deep earthy brown. And then there was his tattoo, his ridiculous tattoo, that came in red at the wrist and curled into blue further up, with green along the edges and mingling through curves and slopes. Not one but three colors. Three colors that barely matched and followed no semblance of order the higher up they went, as if the tattoo itself was determined that it should match nothing and no one.

_(That guy's tattoo was two colors, though, red tinged with black. He thought Fushimi's tattoo was hilarious, the reds and the blues and the greens, and called him a rainbow monkey for three weeks before he became bored of Fushimi's reaction._

_His wife's tattoo was red, and they matched at the wrist. That was what Fushimi had heard his relatives say, anyway. Kisa wore all her clothes with only one sleeve and enhanced her color with makeup, and never held Niki's hand.)_

By middle school there was a rumor that he didn't even have a tattoo. Fushimi ignored them all, and wore long sleeves.

–

“Hey! Show us your tattoo!” 

Fushimi didn't even look up, hands tight around his school satchel as he walked. It wasn't like he hadn't gotten used to this by now – _'Can we see your tattoo, Fushimi-kun?'_ over and over, mocking every time. The unspoken laughter, always: ' _Did you know? Fushimi in Class 1-B_ _hasn't got a soulmate mark.'_

It was better they think that, really, and so he'd never bothered to correct anyone. If it hadn't been for the rumor it wouldn't have mattered at all by the this point anyway. Showing off soulmate marks on the first day of school had faded out of favor now that he was in middle school. Now most of his classmates guarded their tattoos like a secret, with cuts in clothes or rolled up sleeves that only allowed bits and pieces to be seen, and they gossiped uselessly about whether one person's tattoo might match another. Confessions were written and placed in lockers with a single question – 'can I see if we match?' – and answers awaited with baited breath. 

Fushimi had received one such note and had thrown it away out of hand. Later the girls in his class had talked about him in breathy whispers and giggles, discussing the rumored paleness of his arms. Fushimi ignored them, red, blue and green digging their way up towards his shoulder.

“Hey, we were talking to you.” Someone was barring his way and Fushimi looked up, body language tight and pulled in as he raised his head.

Three upperclassmen. Probably on a sports team or something but Fushimi never paid attention to those kinds of things. All three had made holes in their left sleeves, just enough that Fushimi could see a hint of purple poking out of each. His face twisted in a scowl.

“Leave me alone.”  Fushimi attempted to push past them and they closed ranks tighter, blocking his way.

“No need to leave so fast.” One of the boys smirked at him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “So we heard an interesting rumor about you.”

The kid's other hand lowered slowly, nearly touching Fushimi's sleeve, and Fushimi tensed involuntarily, hands clenching. The bullies exchanged a glance and laughed, ignoring the sleeve and reaching into his pocket to grab his wallet instead.

“We heard you were loaded.” The bully holding him tossed the wallet to one of the others, who opened it and whistled.

“This guy carries around a bunch of cash, huh?” He began to dig through the bills and Fushimi continued to stand there, staring down. It wasn't like he needed the money. He wouldn't be able to buy his own food for a few days until he got more but that was fine. He was never very hungry anyway.

“Can I go now?” Fushimi asked, sounding bored. It was so irritatingly cliché, being held up like this, and besides he was tired. He ignored the way his arm was still held tense at his side.

“What, you want to go already? But we're just getting started.” The kid holding him smirked and that hand reached for his sleeve again. “As long as we've got you here we just wanted to confirm some _other_ rumors...”

He reached for Fushimi's sleeve and Fushimi's whole body was suddenly on alert, the blood rushing to his head so fast he felt like he could feel it roaring in his ears, heart beating hard against his chest and he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't –

“What the hell are you doing?”

A sharp angry voice cut through the air and the bullies all turned as one. Fushimi didn't even bother to raise his head, one hand moving instinctively to pull down the edges of his left sleeve.

“What's this?” One of the bullies laughed crudely. “Look at this shorty trying to talk back to his elders.”

“Don't call me short! Anyway, you're picking on him, right? Give him back his wallet!”

“This doesn't concern you at all. There's more of us than you, you know.”

“Shut up! I said to give it back to him!”

“Fine, fine.” With a laugh one of the bullies tossed the empty wallet back at Fushimi and Fushimi finally looked up.

The kid who had interrupted them was short and red-haired and glaring at the bullies as if they had done something to him personally instead of just bothering a stranger. The idiot was wearing his uniform with one sleeve cut off and Fushimi could see it clearly, a simplistic mark like red flames on the kid's right arm.

Ah. That's who it was, then.

Even Fushimi, who never bothered to pay any attention to his classmates at all, knew who Yata Misaki was. Yata was loud and obnoxious and the only one in their entire class who wore his tattoo for all to see, baring his heart to the world and then stupid enough to look hurt when he got rejected by people who clearly weren't a match for him anyway.

“Not just the wallet, give him back his money too!”

The idiot was still talking and Fushimi took advantage of the momentary distraction to pull away.

“Keep it.” Fushimi didn't even bother to look at them as he turned to walk away. It wasn't like he needed money that had been touched by the hands of scum anyway.

“Hey, we're not done with you yet!” One of the bullies reached for him and a rough hand closed around his wrist, tight enough to bruise. “Don't you want to see it too, shorty? This is the guy they say hasn't got a soulmate. So let's just take a look...”

One hand on his wrist and the other on his sleeve, tugging it upwards, a hint of red against pale white skin making itself known, and Fushimi's entire body felt like it was on fire.

_(“Look like we're meant to be together forever, huh, little monkey?” That guy's face, smiling, the red of his tattoo pressed tight against Fushimi's until he couldn't move and the truth ringing in his ears – meant for no one, meant for nothing but this, forever.)_

“Don't touch me!” The words tore themselves out of his throat and Fushimi slammed his head into the bully's forehead with such force he thought he could hear the sound of something cracking.

Dimly he heard someone else yell and suddenly a fist buried itself in his stomach. Fushimi coughed wetly and fell to the ground, rolling as he hit and dragging himself shakily into a sitting position. Another fist came towards him and he was barely cognizant of it before a flash of red barreled into the bully who had been about to hit him.

“Fushimi!”

It was Yata Misaki's voice and Fushimi ignored it, the third bully already aiming for him, grabbing him by the collar again. Fushimi clawed at the hand like a wild animal, kicking out with his legs and then he was dropped to the ground. Before he could get to his feet someone kicked him in the side and Fushimi bit his lip, trying to pull himself upright to no avail.

Yata fell hard to the ground beside him and then the three bullies were staring down at them, panting hard and all three bleeding in some way.

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you little assholes?”

“Don't mess with us again, stupid first years!”

As one the bullies turned and walked away, nursing their own bruises and complaining quietly. Fushimi let his body fall weakly back to the ground for a moment, still trying to catch his breath.

“Assholes.” Yata sat up first, swearing and wiping at the cut that had appeared on his stupid bare arm, blood dripping warm down the red flame marks. Fushimi turned away from him, curling in on himself for a moment as he breathed, and his fingers ghosted over the edge of his left sleeve.

Just a hint of red, peeking out near the wrist. No one had seen, and he pulled the sleeve back over the color.

“Hey, you okay, Fushimi?” There was a hand in front of his face and Fushimi glared as he climbed to his feet on his own. 

“I didn't ask for your help.” Fushimi kicked at the empty wallet, feeling annoyed. This would have all ended easily if the idiot hadn't interfered. He was certain he could have talked his way out of things before the bullies tried to look at his arm.

_(Probably. Or else they would have yanked off his uniform and bared his sleeve, bared that twisted soul in three colors and impossible patterns for all the world to see. Better to be known for a blank arm than that, really. Either way it was damaged.)_

“Those guys were picking on you, right?” Yata's eyes were wide and sincere and Fushimi didn't understand why he even cared. It wasn't like they were friends. The rumors were probably the only reason Yata even knew who he was. 

“It doesn't matter.” Fushimi shrugged and began to walk away, ignoring Yata's call for him to wait up. “If you want gratitude, look somewhere else.”

“Wait that's...” Yata squared his shoulders. “That's not why I did it, I just wanted to help! Anyway, do those guys do that to you a lot? If you need protection I can help, all right? I'll call my friends next time and...” He held up his phone and trailed off. Fushimi found himself leaning over to look at the screen despite himself.

[ _...that Yata, he's so annoying, isn't he?]_

_[showing off his tattoo like that]_

_[only babies do that]_

_[lol elementary kids just like him]_

_[right? right]_

_[why does he hang out with us if we don't even match?]_

_[no one in class matches him]_

_[he would've known in grade school if we did right?]_

_[he didn't go here in grade school]_

_[he should just go back to grade school then]_

_[so annoying]_

_[ugh]_

“A-ah, that's--” Yata stuttered suddenly and Fushimi realized that he'd noticed Fushimi looking. Fushimi shrugged.

“It doesn't have anything to do with me.” There was a question nagging at him though and he found his mouth opening without him even really being aware of it. “Why do you?”

“Huh? Do what?”

“Try to belong with people who aren't even a near match.” Only an idiot would do such a thing, after all. Like flocked to like always, and those outside were always meant to remain so. 

“Well...why shouldn't I?” Yata looked back at him almost defiantly. “I mean, if we're friends it shouldn't matter what my tattoo looks like, right?”

_Shouldn't matter_ and for just a moment Fushimi felt lightheaded.

“Are you an idiot?” Acid on his tongue instead and Fushimi spat out the words. He nodded towards the PDA still held in Yata's hand. “Your 'friends' don't think that way, do they?”

“W-well, this is...” Yata trailed off, eyes downcast, and what should have felt like a victory made Fushimi's chest hurt instead. He turned away with a click of his tongue.

“Whatever. It has nothing to do with me.” It wasn’t like the two of them were a match either, so there wasn't much point in involving himself even if he'd wanted to. Fushimi stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked away, trying to ignore the lingering pain from his bruises.

“Hey, Fushimi, wait up!” Yata was immediately on his heels and Fushimi inclined his head just a little, his scowl stopping Yata flat. “I just thought...well, it'd be stupid to cry yourself to sleep about it, right? Maybe together we can--”

“Who's crying himself to sleep?” Not for a long time now, and certainly not over something so trivial as a group of losers who would never amount to anything. Yata's face seemed to fall a little and Fushimi couldn't help but notice it, the way Yata's eyes darted to his arm. The scowl twisted upward into a smile. “ _Oh?_ Is that it? You're trying to play the hero but you wondered too, right? About the rumor.”

“I didn't!” Yata's answer was immediate, _too_ immediate. Of course that was it. Only a real idiot would have saved Fushimi without expecting anything in return. Fushimi was only surprised Yata hadn't stood back instead, waited until the bullies bared the truth in front of him before putting on his little hero play act. “I wanted to...help....” He trailed off, something like frustration darkening his face and it made Fushimi even more irritated looking at it.

“Don't bother me again.” Fushimi resumed walking. “I didn't ask for your help, and I didn't want it anyway.”

“Fushimi...hey, Fushimi!” Yata called after him but Fushimi didn't even so much as turn around.

Like flocked to like, after all, and there was no way he and Yata Misaki were anything like a match.

–

Yata Misaki's tattoo was simple, he'd thought. Red flames, nothing more. Staring at it from beneath a pile of blankets, though, it seemed...different.

Not that Fushimi was in any way interested in it. He wasn't that stupid, to be caught by something so stupid. But it reminded him of Yata's eyes, almost, bright and burning, bold and brazen against the tanned skin. Out there in the open for the world to see, one sleeve baring his heart to the world in a way that Fushimi found himself associating with Yata more and more.

He had first noticed the difference the night they'd chased the blimp. The mismatch had been sharper, then – Yata with his ridiculous flames and only one sleeve, Aya with her thin lace gloves that showed only hints of the pink seashells that ringed her wrist like a bracelet and Fushimi with his twisted mess of patterns completely hidden under his clothes. Three people who didn't mesh at all, a swirl of patterns and colors clashing against their arms, but there together anyway. Really, it was no wonder that mission had failed when the three most important pieces didn't fit.

But it had been exhilarating, at least a little bit, riding on the back of Yata's bicycle. Yata had looked back at him with a confident smile and Fushimi had found himself thinking of patterns and flames, eyes straying to that bare arm Yata showed so easily to everyone he met. Then the blimp had emerged like a great gray whale from a sea of clouds, moonlight reflecting off the ship and the clouds and the pavement and as Fushimi's breath caught in his throat he thought that maybe Yata's tattoo was shining.

Only a trick of the light, of course. They weren't a match. They would never be a match. But still.

But still, Yata had come to see him when he was sick. As soon as Fushimi had realized that Yata was there he'd fumbled for his blankets and his sleeves, desperate to hide that mark that proved the two of them weren't anything close to meant to be. Yata hadn't even so much as looked at his sleeve though – Yata's eyes had been on his flushed face instead, on his dripping nose and red eyes, on blankets and open windows and letting the breeze inside.

Maybe that was why he'd said it, in the end.

“ So, it’s okay….even without confirming it. Don’t worry and sleep.” Yata's voice was uncharacteristically soft, gentle almost, and it made something in Fushimi shift, just a little.

“Yata.” He called one more time instead, and Yata stopped in the doorway of the room and looked back at him.

“Yeah?” Waiting, as if Fushimi could ask for anything at all and it would be his.

“It's not true.” Fushimi's hand clasped tight around one clammy wrist as he ducked under the blanket. “...The rumor. I have a mark.”

Maybe it was the fever that had made him say it. Maybe it was the warmth transferred to him from Yata's flames, that made him feel too comfortable and the words loosened themselves without his even realizing until it was too late. But he'd said them and there was no taking them back. 

Fushimi waited for the inevitable questions: why do you hide it? What's it look like?

_Want to see if we match?_

Instead, Yata only smiled.

“Ah, I thought so. Thanks for telling me, Fushimi!” Yata turned and made his way back out the door. “Rest now, all right?”

Then he was gone, back down the stairs to the kitchen as though it wasn't important at all, what Fushimi was hiding under his sleeves.

_(Yata's tattoo wasn't simple at all. It was a bright reddish-orange, like glowing flames, and sometimes in the right light it seemed to shimmer.)_

Yata Misaki had a tattoo of dancing flames and suddenly Fushimi couldn't quite stop staring at it.

**–**

The day they talked about it first Fushimi remembered the sky was gray, thick with clouds and heavy with the promise of rain. Fushimi lay on the roof of the school building, staring upwards with half-closed eyes. Everything looked hazy and in the shadows created by the dip of the clouds he pretended he could see something like the wide flat body of an airship moving through the sky.

“Saruhiko? Are you up here?” Misaki's voice, and Fushimi opened his eyes. Misaki sighed as he sat down next to Fushimi. His tattoo was hidden by his school uniform, both sleeves on for once, and it made the rest of the sky seem darker. 

“What took you so long?” He hadn't been waiting long but time always seemed to move slower without Misaki there. Fushimi couldn't help the way his eyes lingered on Misaki's arms, biting his lip to stop his mouth from twisting into a grimace at the loss of the visible tattoo. He'd gotten used to those flames far quicker than he would have expected.

They didn't fit at all, the two of them, yet Misaki was here anyway, with him.

“That stupid teacher made me change.” Misaki tugged on his sleeve, annoyed. “He said one sleeve is against the dress code. The hell! Everyone else cuts their sleeves, what's wrong with mine?”

Misaki was the only student in school stupid enough to wear his uniform with only one sleeve, that was all. Fushimi shrugged.

“Why do you do that anyway?” It had been bothering him from the start and part of Fushimi thought he wouldn't like the answer. But it looked like rain and he felt the need, somehow, to be a thundercloud on a day like today. Better to get the rain over with than lie there and wait, after all.

_“Because I want my soulmate to be able to find me!”_

_“Because if I hide it no one will know if we're a match!”_

Fushimi knew the reasons, the same as those days in elementary school and the first day ritual. Stupid and open-hearted and _believing,_ and even though he understood Fushimi knew that he would never _really_ comprehend it at all.

Misaki just shrugged, though.

“It looks cool, doesn't it?” Misaki's face screwed up in displeasure and he began to roll up one sleeve. “My mom says she thinks they look like flames! It's normal to want to show it off, right?”

“That's all?” Fushimi rolled his eyes. “You know that's why those idiots from before never liked you, right? There's no point in hanging out with someone who won't be anything like a match for you.” One hand crept towards his wrist. “You're just telling everyone that you don't fit.”

“Well...why do I have to fit?” Misaki was looking at him in genuine confusion and Fushimi couldn't quite believe it, couldn't quite believe that even Misaki was this stupid.

“Do you know how the world works, Misaki?” Fushimi couldn't keep the chill from his voice. Didn't everyone know? The way things were supposed to be, the anomaly that Fushimi represented with his impossible patterns, impossible colors, and Misaki with those dancing flames that could no doubt match a million others. “That match is supposed to mean something.”

“Not to me.” Misaki's voice was firm and unshakeable, his face lowered and expression for once entirely serious. “Saruhiko...you—you know I mentioned before, how my mom got remarried?”

Fushimi didn't answer but Misaki didn't seem to expect him to, continuing.

“I thought...that kind of thing isn't supposed to happen, right?” Misaki kept staring down at his arm, at those red flames Fushimi could just see peeking out beneath the rolled-up sleeve. “I mean, they were a match. They were _soulmates,_ weren't they? And...and yeah, my dad wasn't the best. He wasn't around a lot and when he was...” Misaki shook his head. “But he wasn't... _bad,_ you know?”

' _Bad'_ and that, at least, Fushimi knew. But he waited for Misaki to continue anyway.

“So when Mom decided to leave him she had to do all this stuff,” Misaki said. “I don't even remember how many forms she had to sign. And she had to go to this panel, so they could all look over her arm and my dad's arm and see where they'd messed up. Like it was someone else's job, to tell Mom whether or not my dad was meant for her. I was real little at the time so I didn't really get it but it seemed like a big deal. Soulmates aren't supposed to be apart ever, so if they weren't going to be together that means they weren't ever soulmates to begin with, doesn't it?”

“Mmm.” Fushimi shrugged and he could feel his own mark like snakes crawling underneath his skin, red, blue, green, and nothing like a flame anywhere. Nothing that would match Misaki or anyone else.

“Then my mom met my stepdad.” Misaki leaned back on his palms, looked up at the sky. “I felt really weird at the wedding. People kept...looking at me, like I was a problem. I mean, my stepdad didn't. But...I'm not like my siblings either. Cause my mom and dad weren't soulmates.” Misaki looked up abruptly. “So—so that's why I decided it's stupid. I mean, if you could marry someone and have a kid and everything with a person who you thought was your soulmate and then they aren't, isn't that weird? Mom thought she and my dad were a match but then they weren't the _right_ match and..and that's stupid, isn't it? Who gets to decide which match is right?” He clenched a fist and Fushimi felt something fluttering in his chest, warm, and he had to close his eyes against the sudden dizzy feeling that swept over him.

“So I figured, what's the point in hiding it?” Misaki's voice rang in his ears. “If anyone could be a wrong match then why does everybody act like there's something weird about hanging out with people whose tattoos aren't the same as yours? What if you thought they were a match and then they weren't, I'm not gonna just stop being friends with someone because of that. So...”

Misaki's voice trailed off weakly.

“That was kinda stupid of me, huh?” Misaki murmured, a little defeated. “I'm probably the only guy in the world who doesn't believe in soulmates.”

“ _You know you have one though, right?”_ It was on the tip of his tongue, and Fushimi didn't say it.

“Saruhiko?” He could feel Misaki leaning over him, shadow covering him like a blanket, and Fushimi opened his eyes. Misaki was staring down at him, an unexpected hesitance in his eyes, and part of Fushimi wanted to reach up, reach for him and grab that arm and pull him close and _believe._

But they didn't need to believe, and his chest had never felt so light before.

“Fine.” 

“What the hell does that mean, 'fine'?” Misaki said, annoyed, and Fushimi shrugged.

“That's fine too, isn't it?” Fushimi let Misaki's sun warm his face. “I don't believe in it either.”

He saw Misaki's gaze dart briefly to his arms, the constant long sleeves and never a hint of colored skin beneath and for just a moment Fushimi thought he could see the question in Misaki's eyes. But then Misaki smiled, a light to chase the rain away, and Fushimi felt himself relax.

“So...it's you and me, right?” Misaki said, hopeful.

“Yeah.” It wasn't a match, wasn't a pattern he could see with his own two eyes. But for the first time he could remember, Fushimi felt like there wasn't anything broken about him at all.

–

“Saruhiko, come on!”

“No.”

“Not even for one picture?”

“I didn't say you could take that, either.”

It was spring and the leaves danced down around them as Misaki tugged on his arm. The day was warm and the sun was bright and they'd skipped class together, because Fushimi had suggested it.

He'd spent the last two nights at an internet cafe and his shoulders had been feeling stiff and sore all morning. There was no going home though, not this time of the month. 

'That guy' would be home soon, this time of the month.

“You could at least wear short sleeves you know, aren't you hot?” Misaki gave him an exasperated look from where he lay in the grass beside Fushimi. Misaki was still in his school uniform, having gotten Fushimi's mail while on the way to school. There was sure to be trouble later, calls to parents and scoldings, but Misaki had come anyway, when Fushimi called. He'd cut the right sleeve off his uniform again and his tattoo looked like a sunrise over a field, bright burning red against the green green grass.

“This is fine.” Misaki had said it again and again, that he didn't care what that tattoo looked like. But whatever image was in Misaki's head Fushimi knew that it wasn't anything close to the mess on his arm, three colors and nothing that fit. A blank arm would be better. A blank arm and a million possibilities and maybe somewhere, something a little bit like a red flame.

_(Not that he wanted such things. But the world was what it was, and he couldn't help but think about it sometimes, that despite all Misaki's words the whole world could come crashing down in an instant the moment they met someone with curving flames that fit like two halves of a whole against Misaki's arms.)_

“It would be cool to have a picture of us side by side, though.” Misaki held his PDA up in the air, the camera turned so that Fushimi could see a reflection of the two of them there side by side. There were leaves in Misaki's hair and Fushimi's face was just slightly flushed with sweat.

“Who said I wanted a picture?” Misaki had been making noise about it all afternoon. Apparently he'd gotten it into his head somehow that friends needed pictures of each other, as if they'd forget each other's faces without something concrete to hold onto.

“Well...I want a picture of you.” Simple and straightforward, just like the flames on his arm. Fushimi clicked his tongue and let his head fall just a little to the side, let his breath blow hot on Misaki's skin.

“Fine. But like this.” In the reflection of the PDA's camera he could see Misaki's arm clearly, the reds that shone in the sun, green grass and red hair and fire and Fushimi didn't even need to look at himself. Misaki alone was fine.

“All right, all right. Smile, okay?”

“Don't want to.” Fushimi felt drowsy, warm, and Misaki's face filled his field of vision entirely.

Misaki sighed and held up the PDA a little higher anyway. Fushimi heard the small click of the shutter going off and then Misaki was poking his shoulder again, holding the screen up close to his face. 

The two of them, side by side surrounded by green, and Misaki's arm red like fire. Misaki was smiling widely in the photo like a five year old on picture day and Fushimi's eyes were half-closed. There was something not quite a smile on his own face, not quite a smile but not a frown either, and maybe it wasn't so bad.

“I'm gonna send it to your PDA too, okay?” Misaki said, fiddling with his phone as he pulled up the mailing app Fushimi had made for them. 

Fushimi murmured his reply into Yata's shoulder, wrapped in layers and spring wind and the echo of Misaki's smile, and let his eyes close.

\--

The rain chased him into the house and Fushimi cursed quietly as he let the door slam behind him. His fingers were chilled to the bone and he tucked them inside his sleeves for a moment, trying to restore the feeling.

Misaki hadn't been at school today. If he'd known Fushimi would have simply skipped himself – what was the point in going, really, if Misaki wasn't going to be there – but his PDA had apparently fallen out of his school satchel at some point and he'd been unable to find it. Instead Fushimi had spent two periods hiding in the bathroom before finally managing to make his escape from school grounds entirely. Of course no sooner had he gotten out of sight of the school then it had started to downpour, sheets of rain pouring from the sky and Fushimi had been forced to hide under awnings and in open doorways, a mix of stops and starts on his way back and even then he'd still ended up utterly soaked. His fingers felt cold to the tips but his head was spinning and somehow he just _knew_ he was going to end up sick after this.

Well, Misaki could just come take care of him again, so maybe that wouldn't be so bad. If only he could find his PDA Fushimi could mail Misaki and find out where he'd been all day.

“Oh? Is my little monkey _finally_ home?”

Any warmth still lingering in Fushimi's blood instantly froze.

Niki was leaning against the bannister, head cocked to one side, and there was a pile of paper tucked underneath one arm. Fushimi took a step back, halfway towards the door, and then stopped. 

He wasn't staying here, that was for certain. But he needed his PDA. Misaki had no doubt been mailing him all day, wondering why he hadn't replied.

_(He didn't owe Misaki a reply, of course. But his hands itched for it, his whole body tensed with the need to see if he'd been noticed, to remind himself that there was one person who cared whether he sent a reply or not.)_

“You're early, huh?” Niki laughed and Fushimi tried to slip around him, make for the stairs. Niki was already there, though, moving easily to block his way while setting the papers down on an end table. “Hmm? What's the hurry, monkey? Come on, give Daddy a hug.”

He held one arm out and Fushimi's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to it, those complex patterns in red and black that were the closest thing to his own. He resisted the urge to tug on his own sleeves. Niki would definitely catch the movement if he did, would be amused by it and would feel the need to remind him again about the only match he would ever have.

_(“Just you and me forever, little monkey. Won't that be fun?”)_

“Come on, Saruhiko. Say it and I'll give you a treat.” Niki's eyes were dark and his smile a sharp curve. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a familiar PDA, holding it inches above Fushimi's head. “Dance for me, all right?”

Fushimi's hands itched and he grabbed for the PDA before he could stop himself. Niki laughed loudly, the sound an echo over and over in Fushimi's ears, and Niki pulled the PDA away again.

“Well, monkey?” Niki said. “Say 'please, Daddy.'”

“Fuck you,” Fushimi hissed. He knew he was shaking slightly, the knowledge settling dull and heavy in his stomach that he was going to have to give in, eventually. 

The knowledge that once again he'd been beaten by this man, and there was nothing at all he could do about it.

“What a rude kid.” Niki laughed as he turned the PDA over in his hands. “Hey, I wonder if I could crack your password? Should we check?”

Fushimi didn't say anything, hands slack at his sides. There was no way out of it now. If he kept quiet maybe Niki would get bored, give it back to him.

“Oops, looks like it's not hard at all!” Niki's voice was broad and fake, and Fushimi felt his breath catch as he realized that Niki had no doubt cracked that code hours ago, mind suddenly reeling with all the things that Niki could have seen.

The mailing app. Conversations upon conversations with Misaki, secrets only between the two of them. And...

“Wow, look at this!” Niki turned the screen so that Fushimi could see it, that picture Misaki had taken of the two of them weeks ago. Niki's voice was cold and coiling around him as he spoke. “Is this your _friend,_ Saruhiko?”

Fushimi bit his lip and his hands clenched slightly.

“Hmm? It's not?” Niki cocked his head, looking almost sincere if Fushimi hadn't known better. “Then I guess it's okay if I just _delete_ this...”

“Don't!” His hands reached for it before he could stop himself and Niki giggled happily, pulling the PDA out of range again. Fushimi lunged for it and suddenly he found himself pushed down, back slamming hard against the couch with Niki leaning over him, arms making a cage with his body to hold Fushimi still. Fushimi tried to pull away but he was caught, unable to move, unable to breathe, his entire body shaking lightly as Niki yanked off his uniform jacket and pulled up his sleeve, baring his arm to the open air.

“Poor little monkey,” Niki murmured, his own arm pressed close against Fushimi's, the red and black of his tattoo blending into Fushimi's three colors, all complicated patterns and shapes like some kind of math problem that couldn't be solved. “Hey, have you shown all this to your _friend?_ I bet he thinks it's weird, right? Middle schoolers are always like that. I bet they all tease you, don't they?”

Fushimi looked away, fingers clenching as he bit his lip against the desire to reply.

“What? You haven't shown him? How else will you know if you're 'meant to be,' huh?” Niki laughed and Fushimi's eyes darted to the PDA in his hands again, trying to calculate the risks of reaching for it again. Niki didn't even seem to care, tossing the PDA haphazardly onto the couch and grabbing for Fushimi's wrist instead, pinning it above his head so that the tattoo could be seen in full, pushing Fushimi's sleeve up so far it hurt where it bunched around his upper arm. “Sad little Saruhiko...don't worry. Daddy's always meant to be with you. Isn't that nice?” He smiled widely and ran his thumb over the red leaf-pattern on Fushimi's wrist, pressing down so that the skin beneath flushed red. “But maybe you and your _friend_ are a match. You know they have those generators now right, that can give you _all_ kinds of matches if you put a picture of your tattoo in? Well, I don't have many pictures of my little monkey's arm but don't worry! There are ways around that too.” Niki's smile seemed to almost widen and Fushimi felt suddenly very cold as Niki released him, reaching back for the stack of papers nearly forgotten on the end table.

“Here we are!” Niki all but threw the papers at him, letting them flutter down as Fushimi grabbed for the dropped PDA with hands suddenly clammy and shaking. Niki stood, leaning over Fushimi so that he seemed to fill Fushimi's entire range of vision, black and red tattoo and wide pleased smile and papers fluttering down like flower petals between them. “I put that cute picture of your _friend's_ tattoo in there and just _look_ how many matches I got!” He clapped his hands. “Why don't we look at them together? Who knows, maybe your name is in there too!”

The last sentence was punctuated by a burst of laughter so loud Fushimi had to stop himself from flinching. He pulled himself up on his arms and even as he moved his eyes couldn't help but rest on the papers that covered the couch, the floor and even his own body.

Lines and lines of names, phone numbers, addresses. Every tattoo was required to be filed with the National Household Registry, for record-keeping purposes. Officially, these were considered classified and any soulmate match services were required to only make use of the tattoo images given to them by registered consenting members. But there were rumors of underground sites, accessible only by those who knew the right places to look, that made use of hacked data and backdoor resources in order to find more complete matches. 

All that knowledge suddenly burning its way through Fushimi's head as he stared at those names and addresses and birth dates, pages and pages of people who were all possible matches for Misaki. 

People who might be Misaki's soulmate, all out there waiting for the day they met and made a match. 

_“It's you and me, right?”_ and Fushimi felt like he might throw up, Niki's laughter echoing in his ears and ringing in his head, making him stumble weakly as he all but fell off the couch.

“What's wrong, monkey? Don't you want to look?” Niki crouched down to face him, all innocent. He reached for one of the fallen papers. “Here, I'll help! Let's see...Miyama Takeru, Okinawa prefecture--”

Fushimi didn't wait to hear any more. Blood was roaring in his ears and he scrambled to his feet, not even bothering to grab for his fallen jacket as he ran out the door with Niki's laughter echoing behind him.

It was still raining outside, and cold, and Fushimi stood there with tousled clothing in front of his house, shaking and panting with his hands white around his PDA. One hand reached up to pull down his sleeve at last, cover the tattoo before anyone else could see it. The door behind him creaked open just a little, and Fushimi immediately bolted out into the rain.

He ran, and even then Fushimi knew that he would never be able to run far enough to escape the words echoing in his head.

_“Maybe your name is in there too!”_

It wasn't, he knew it wasn't, it couldn't be, and Fushimi dug his nails into the tattoo until it bled.

\--

Fushimi sat in a internet cafe, arms wrapped close around his body as if that could help restore some warmth to his chilled limbs. Light from the computer screen reflected in his eyes as he scrolled through websites at random, clicking links mindlessly as he tried to think about anything at all except that pile of papers Niki had thrown at him.

Tried to think about anything besides all those names, all those would-be matches for that tattoo that was nothing at all like his.

It was late, past midnight at least. He'd been up for hours now but even with the weariness deep in his bones he couldn't seem to sleep. Ads flashed at him from the side of the screen: FIND YOUR SOULMATE, FREE TRIAL NOW. GUARANTEED MATCHES. 

Ridiculous, Fushimi knew that. Any idiot who believed such things deserved to lose their money. Despite that guy's words plenty of studies had shown that for at least a good 65% of people it was nearly impossible to find the perfect soulmate match without meeting face to face. There were algorithms for it, of course, and jungle had a 3-D match system in beta development that was rumored to up the match rate by another 8% but that was the best anyone had found so far. It was perfectly likely that none of those people in Niki's list were _really_ matches for Misaki at all.

But even with the error rate there had at least been possibilities, a hundred maybes there in black and white. Part of Fushimi couldn't help but wonder if he would find anything at all if he put his own tattoo into the database and he bit his lip hard, fingers curling sharp into the lines on his arm right where the blue bled into green.

There were articles too, on various news websites, headlines that burned and blurred in the dim light, his eyes sore from staring at the screen too long. Sensationalist stories about fifty year old men who claimed to have found their matches in ten year old girls and the ligation to follow, tragic-romantic ( _stupid)_ stories about eighty year olds whose tattoos matched those of two year olds, who then committed suicide in the hope of rebirth. 

There was one story that caught his eye, a person with a tattoo that didn't seem to match anything at all, who had discovered upon entering college that their soulmate tattoo was in fact words in a foreign script. How that person had completely dropped their course of study two days later, enrolled in a different college offering that specific foreign language instead, and then eventually traveled thousands of miles to start a new life in an unfamiliar country all in hopes of finding the one person whose tattoo would match theirs.

The match turned out to be someone from their hometown, who had studied the same language and traveled to the same country for the same reason. The article made the whole thing out to be terribly romantic, and Fushimi thought it was the stupidest thing he had read in his whole life.

Soulmate tattoos disappeared at death. So if there were x amount of car accidents every day, y amount of deaths due to criminal activities or illness or natural disasters, all added up to a sum of arms that contained only possibilities that would never be filled. Add in stillborn babies and infants who died young, hundreds of blank arms with marks that had never quite come to fruition, and it was a wonder anyone at all had a match. It was a wonder that so many idiots twisted their entire lives in knots all to find the one person whose mark matched theirs and no matter if that person was really the one they truly wanted to be with.

_(Fushimi Kisa and Fushimi Niki, whose tattoos matched at the wrist even though they never held hands and yet still Fushimi Saruhiko was somehow a mistake, with a pattern that belonged nowhere, to no one.)_

Yata Misaki had a tattoo of flames and somewhere there was no doubt a person whose arm matched his perfectly.

Fushimi thought of car accidents, of stillbirths and the distance between continents, and tried to breathe.

–

Two days later he went home. That guy was gone but he'd left the papers for Fushimi, right there on Fushimi's bed. Fushimi started a fire in the fireplace and fed each sheet of paper to the flames, one by one.

_(This time he thought it might be a relief, to watch something burn.)_

It didn't help, and he wondered how long an imperfect match could possibly last.

\--

“Aren't you hot?”

It was summer and they were leaning against each other on a corner, eating ice cream. Misaki's arms were bare as usual, red flames that seemed almost like they really were on fire in the heat of the sun. Fushimi wore a long sleeve hoodie, the hood down over his head as if he hoped that might provide a bit of shade against the heat, and sweat dripped down his neck.

“I'm fine.” Fushimi's head was swimming and he leaned against the cool brick wall of the building behind him. Ice cream dripped onto his fingers, sticky and cold, and he didn't bother to move his hand as it slid further down onto his wrist, staining his sleeve.

“You're gonna faint again, Saruhiko. You could at least take the hoodie off, you know.”

“Shut up, Misaki.” It was the _again_ that irritated him the most. He'd never had a problem with heat until he met Misaki. Before he met Misaki he'd just stayed inside if it was too hot, or if necessary holed himself up in the library with its air conditioning until the sun went down and the cooler air moved in. It was because of Misaki that he went out in this kind of weather and sat on street corners and ate ice cream in the burning sun.

Burning, just like the tattoo on Misaki's arm. If someone had asked Fushimi might have admitted that he came out in this weather because he liked seeing it, that tattoo in the sunshine. Misaki always burned the brightest in summer, tattoo a brilliant red-gold, a mesmerizing pattern of flames that were nothing like a normal fire.

_(Fushimi knew fire, of course. He remembered an anthill and the smell of gasoline, that guy's laughter howling above it all. Real fire made his breath catch sometimes and his fingers shake, but real fire couldn't match Misaki's flames in the least.)_

“You're burning up.” Misaki placed a hand on his forehead and Fushimi's hands twitched just a bit. Misaki's face was inches away from his, eyes bright with concern, and the hand against his forehead made Fushimi think dimly that Misaki was right, he _was_ burning, and it was those flames on Misaki's arm that were swallowing him whole.

“I'm fine.” Fushimi said it again anyway, and the melting ice cream continued to stain his sleeve.

Misaki didn't look convinced and finally grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him upright.

“Let's go to the game center, okay? They have air conditioning.”

Misaki's right hand closed over Fushimi's left wrist and if he pulled just a bit harder, if Fushimi tugged backwards just a bit more, that sleeve would fall back and the skin of Misaki's tattoo would be pressed up against his.

_(“It's you and me, right?”)_

That had been enough, that day on the rooftop, but sometimes he wanted to think...

_(“Why don't we look at them together? Who knows, maybe your name is in there too!”)_

Fushimi stood and pulled his hand away entirely.

“I can walk by myself.” 

**\--**

“Hey Saruhiko...what would you do, if you ever ran into someone who was a match?”

The words were enough to send a chill through Fushimi's veins and he forced his breathing to remain steady. They were lying side by side in Misaki's bed. Misaki's mother had allowed Fushimi to stay over for the night and they'd been up for hours already, playing video games and talking. There was a futon set on the floor for him but Misaki had dragged Fushimi up next to him so they could talk without his mother waking up.

Misaki had two siblings. Minoru's tattoo was a green leafy pattern that swirled around his upper arm. Megumi's had just come in two weeks ago, lightened from black to a dusty rose color in the span of three days and looked almost like a mottled collection of flower petals that clustered mostly around her shoulder.

Misaki's mother had dark magenta ribbons around her wrists and her new husband had concentric circles of the same color that stretched down from his elbow and locked around his wrist. When they stood side by side they were a perfect match.

_(But then, Misaki's father had probably seemed a perfect match too, and look how that had ended up.)_

Misaki thought soulmates were stupid. But sometimes Fushimi found himself wondering about that, if it was all Misaki trying to convince himself of his own words, of that firm belief in the pointlessness of loving any stranger whose hands could make a pattern with your own. 

Sometimes Fushimi wondered it himself, what would happen the day Misaki finally met his true match.

“Does it matter?” Fushimi didn't look at him, one hand rubbing at his left arm slowly. “Let's go to sleep.”

“It would be funny if we were a match though, right?” Misaki curled up beside him, not quite reaching for his hand, and Fushimi rolled over onto his opposite side so he wouldn't have to see Misaki's face.

“Isn't it fine like this too?” He muttered the words into the blankets.

Misaki didn't reply and Fushimi wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Fushimi's fingers clenched and unclenched, feeling sore, and he thought about the knife he kept in a drawer in his bedroom.

“It doesn't matter though, you know?” Misaki's words made his breath catch for only a moment. “I—I mean, well, it's fine if it's you and me, right? We don't need soulmates, as long as it's us.”

Fushimi didn't reply and eventually he heard Misaki's breath even out, fast asleep.

Fushimi turned back over to look at him. Misaki had fallen asleep with his right arm stretched out, the sleeves half-rolled down, and Fushimi found himself pushing up the sleeve of his left arm.

_(“We don't need soulmates as long as it's us,”_ _but how long could Misaki say that, when there was someone meant for him out there waiting?)_

Fushimi pulled his sleeve back down and went back to sleep.

–

They were in that room again, sitting face to face on the bed with a nightlight bright between them and Misaki's eyes were serious and hooded. Fushimi's school uniform was soaked through with snow and there were bright red flushed marks on his cheeks, another cold coming on. He hadn't eaten anything but cola and chips for the last two days and skipped class more often than not.

Misaki had tried to sneak him through the window an hour ago. Misaki's mother had given them both a curious look when she caught sight of Misaki carefully dragging him through the house still dripping snow but she hadn't said anything, had pretended she hadn't even seen.

“You don't need a home like that.” Misaki's face was oddly serious, thoughtful, and in the dim light his arm was a mottled pattern of red flames and black shadows. His voice was sincere, though, and the fire on his arms seemed to reflect in his eyes as he stared up at Fushimi. “Let's get a place together, Saruhiko.”

Misaki reached for him then, the left arm, and Fushimi pulled away and let Misaki take his right hand instead. Misaki's hand was warm, too warm, and Fushimi felt as though there was something crawling in the pit of his stomach.

An imperfect match. For all Misaki knew Fushimi didn't even have a tattoo, those words whispered from a sickbed that day in the rain the only proof he had that Fushimi's soul was marked anywhere on his skin at all. But still: _“You don't need a home like that.”_

Fushimi nodded silently and Misaki's hand squeezed his, lightly.

And between them, where their hands met, one shadow.

–

“Saruhiko. Aya will, like, give you a warning.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue, not even turning to look at the girl standing angrily behind him. He didn't particularly understand what her issue was – she claimed to like Misaki so much and then all she had done was complain about him, about the two of them dropping out of school together. Not that Fushimi cared much what she thought either way. 

There was nothing in this society for him, with his patterns that didn't fit. But Misaki, with his wide eyes and bright smile and that _“you and me,”_ that was entirely different.

“You and Misaki-kun aren't a match.” The tone of Aya's voice was heavier than he'd ever heard it and Fushimi finally looked back at her. Her face was still red from where he'd kicked her own bag at her and her hands were clenched tight by her sides, lace gloves and pink seashells tensed and clashing with her school uniform. 

There was something like tears gathering in her eyes.

“Aya, like, knows you have a tattoo.” She wiped furiously at her eyes with a fist. “But you and Misaki-kun aren't a match at all. People will, like, talk about it, you know? If you two stay together. You know Misaki-kun has someone out there who's actually meant for him, right?”

_(Pages and pages of names, all consigned to the fire.)_

“Did you think I really needed you to tell me that?” Fushimi turned away from her again and continued walking, scorn heavy in his voice. “That's why I said I can't stand this type of society. A match, meant for him? Ridiculous. People who twist themselves in knots, looking for something that only exists because they want to see it.” Hours and hours in an internet cafe, reading the same stupid articles again and again. He didn't need that, and neither did Misaki. It didn't matter if Misaki had a match waiting, as long as they were together. 

It didn't matter, and even as the words ran through his mind Fushimi couldn't help but be aware of how much they sounded like a lie.

–

[Impressive, middle schooler. Very impressive.]

Fushimi sat there stock still and half covered in blankets, staring at the computer screen. The figure on the screen stared back – and it _shouldn't have_ , such a thing shouldn't have been possible for a simple foreign avatar that had somehow been inserted into his own program.

[Well, you interrupted my game. But I believe the winning move will be mine regardless. Still, well done.]

_This can't be happening._ Fushimi couldn't hear Misaki's voice anymore through his headset and his hands felt cold as he fumbled for the keyboard. It had to be only a virus, someone hacking into his system. They couldn't have been defeated so easily.

[Oh? How intriguing.]

The avatar's head cocked just slightly to one side and Fushimi found himself following the movement.

He'd thrown off his sweater in surprise when the avatar had started talking to him and the blanket he'd been burrowed under had fallen back as well, leaving him in only a short-sleeved undershirt. His screen was suddenly flooded with green light and Fushimi flinched back as though it had physically burned him the moment that light reflected onto his bared, nearly fully visible tattoo.

[Fascinating.] The voice was still as dry as it had ever been and Fushimi could only stare as the screen changed, the small avatar moving its hands and tiny blocks of green, red and blue appearing before it. The blocks began to attach and detach themselves, as though forming something and Fushimi felt something like fear run through him as he realized what was happening.

The “superior person of jungle” who he was facing had somehow read the pattern of his tattoo through the screen and was reconstructing it in full right there in front of him.

[It appears that you do not match that friend of yours at all. The probability rate is only 10%...no, 5%. How intriguing, middle schooler.]

Fushimi couldn't stop the panic building in his throat now, scrambling for his sweater even though he knew it was too late, even though his entire soul was already laid out there on the screen. 

_“You and Misaki-kun aren't a match.”_

_“Why don't we look at them together? Who knows, maybe your name is in there too!”_

Words he could have dismissed, once, but none of them came close to the dry clinical announcement of the avatar on the screen in front of him and there was a sick feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that taunted him for the part of him that had until this moment, despite everything, really wanted to _believe._

[What it does match, though...] Something else flashed onto the screen, a 3-D pattern all in green and the reconstruction of Fushimi's mark began to turn and twist, green pressing against green.

Almost a match.

[Is it all right for you to sit idly watching like this?] The dry computerized voice made him start. [That friend of yours, with the mark like flames...I wonder if he's still all right?]

_Misaki._ The only word that could pull him away and abruptly Fushimi found himself reaching for the power cord, yanking it out of the wall. The screen that still showed his rotating tattoo went dark and Fushimi ran out of the building, all but tripping over his own feet, one hand clenched so tightly over his left arm that he thought he might have bruises there in the morning.

If the morning came, of course, and Fushimi kept running.

“Misaki!” His hands were white around his PDA as he dialed Misaki's number. There was no reply, only a steady beep from the other end and Fushimi felt his heart drop.

Of course it had been a failure. Of course they hadn't been able to do anything.

How could they have expected to topple anything at all, two people who weren't even anything like a match?

He rounded a corner and suddenly there was a sharp burst of heat and pain by the right side of his face, accompanied by the sound of something loud exploding. Fushimi's hands instinctively went up to press against the wound as he fell hard to the ground. 

“Is this him?” He heard the sound of unfamiliar voices from around him and Fushimi dragged himself into a sitting position, one hand still over his injured eye. He could just make out the form of Oogai Aya turning and being swallowed up by the crowd, a used party popper clutched in one hand. He was surrounded by a group of people, a sea of masked faces staring down at him impassively. One of them was looking down at their PDA.

“This is the one, right?”

“Yeah, I recognize him. 3-B's Fushimi Saruhiko.”

“So what's the mission say?”

Fushimi grit his teeth, preparing to force his way through the crowd if necessary, and then someone laughed.

“This is the guy who doesn't have a tattoo, right?” The masked faces turned as one to look down at him and Fushimi felt as though the air was rushing in on him all of a sudden, his breath coming in short gasps and his field of vision going gray at the edges. He fell forward, hands hitting the pavement hard as the crowd closed in on him.

“So all we have to do is get a clear picture of his arms, right?”

Then there were hands on him, everywhere, pulling at his sweater, pushing him down and grabbing onto his wrists and Fushimi couldn't stop the rush of pure panic that ran through him as he thrashed wildly in their grip, kicking and biting at any hand that came near him and still they surrounded him, laughing. Fushimi curled up in a fetal position, fingers digging tight into his left sleeve even as his attackers tried to pry his hand off, his vision nothing but a blur of masked faces and grasping hands and Fushimi heard the sound of his clothes tearing as his vision began to go black.

“Saruhiko!”

Dimly he heard a voice yelling and suddenly he could breathe again, uncurling slightly but unable to stop the shaking. The people leaning over him scattered abruptly as Misaki all but soared into the middle of the mob on his skateboard to stand protectively in front of Fushimi, eyes burning with a flame hotter than the ones that marked his arm.

“Misaki?” Fushimi hated how thin his voice sounded, fragile like a child's, and one hand was still gripping the spot where the left sleeve of his sweater had nearly been pulled off.

“What the hell do you guys think you're _doing?”_ Misaki wasn't looking at him, was staring back at the masked crowd surrounding them as though he wanted to tear them apart with his bare hands. 

“Who's this shorty? Getting in our way.”

“There's more of us than them, right? So ignore him.”

“Right, we still need to get that picture.”

The crowd was already recovering from the shock of Misaki's sudden entrance and Fushimi forced himself up on legs that were trembling too hard for his liking. Misaki looked back at him, worry written clear on his face as a few members of the crowd began to step closer to them.

“We need to get out of here.” Fushimi swallowed hard, trying to even out his breathing. Misaki's face was still clearly lined with worry but at Fushimi's words his gaze hardened with determination and he nodded.

“Right. Leave it to me.” Misaki steadied himself for just a moment on his skateboard and then with a burst of power pushed himself forward towards the gathered crowd.

He was going too fast to stop but a few members of the mob at least had the presence of mind to move out of the way. Someone grabbed at Yata's collar, wrenching him off the skateboard, and Fushimi lowered his head and charged straight into the attacker, nearly going head over heels himself. Misaki had to haul him to his feet, already setting off at a run with Fushimi's left wrist held tight in one hand. Fushimi kept his other hand clenched over where his sleeve was coming undone and didn't look down at the spot where he could just make out the smallest bit of red against white on his wrist, right where Yata's hand closed over it.

His breath was burning in his lungs as they ran, Misaki's skateboard forgotten behind them. Fushimi heard someone yell from behind him and then a hand grabbed at the collar of his sweater, yanked him back and he lost his footing, falling hard to the ground as his hand was torn from Misaki's grip.

“Saruhiko!” Misaki immediately turned but Fushimi barely had a moment to catch a glimpse of his face before the crowd was on him again, reaching for his sleeves, and Fushimi's hands scraped hard against the ground as he tried to scramble away.

As if from far away he thought he heard Misaki yell.

“Please! Save Saruhiko!”

_Who...?_ He couldn't even quite wrap his mind around the question, a sea of masked faces surrounding him and pawing at him, pulling at the sleeve that was nearly about to tear–

–And then, fire.

He could almost make out the sound of frightened yells and his darkened vision registered shadows backing away from him. There was roaring and heat in his ears, swirling around him like a vortex and Fushimi's hands felt absolutely frozen, body swaying as though he was about to faint. There was a hand on his shoulder and he couldn't even move to shove it off, could only sit there and wait for the flames to swallow him whole.

_(Swallow him whole, like they swallowed up everything else, an anthill and a pile of papers filled with names, and Misaki's arm, Misaki's soul that would never be like his.)_

Then the fire was gone and he sat there alone, burn marks and ash surrounding him.

“Are you all right?” Someone leaned down to look at him but Fushimi couldn't even move his head towards the sound of the voice, still shaking.

“Saruhiko!” Misaki was there a moment later, reaching for him and Fushimi flinched back unconsciously – _hands everywhere, closing over his skin, tearing at his clothes and his arm –_ and Misaki stopped half an inch from his face, down on his hands and knees beside where Fushimi still sat numbly on the ground. “I was – I was so – worried, I was so–”

He was hiccuping and half sobbing and Fushimi looked down at him dumbly, throat too dry to form words.

“So who're these kids?”

“You don't know either, King? Then why did we save them?”

Fushimi shook his head as he tried to focus on the conversation that was happening above his head, the person behind him speaking to someone else approaching from the front, where Misaki had been. Misaki seemed to have regained his senses at the same time, looking up.

In front of them there was a man with red hair and golden eyes, looking down at them with a gaze that made Fushimi's blood run cold. Beside him he heard Misaki give a small barely noticeable gasp, a sharp intake of breath that nonetheless made Fushimi's feel dizzy again.

It was the 'Red Monster,' the one they'd met in town weeks earlier. That time he'd been wearing a jacket that had covered the entirety of his arms. The jacket was gone now though, and even in the dim light of the streetlamps Fushimi could see the man's arms perfectly.

A bonfire.

Blazing red-gold flames that worked their way up both arms, and Fushimi's eyes darted over to look at Misaki.

Misaki, who was staring at the man in front of him of though he'd just seen something impossible and unconsciously holding onto his right arm at the exact spot where his own tattoo began.

– 

“Are you okay, Saruhiko?”

It was dark in the apartment and Fushimi lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. His arms hurt, his arms and his eye and every muscle in his body bruised and sore. Misaki's voice below him was nothing but a small tremulous croak.

“I'm fine, Misaki. I'm trying to sleep.”

'Trying,' and failing. Every time he closed his eyes all he could see were hands reaching for him again and he would find himself lying there panting and choking, trembling and not able to stop.

“...Sorry.” Misaki had wanted them to sleep in the same bed, still tired out and shaking after the ordeal from earlier in the night. Fushimi had clutched at the tattered mess of his sweater and refused, climbing into his own bunk without even a look back. “I guess the plan failed, huh?”

“Yeah.” Fushimi's fingers twitched and he stared up into the darkness. 

“I was really worried about you, you know?” He could hear Misaki shifting in his blankets. “Saruhiko...did you see it? Mikoto-san's arms were...”

Fushimi didn't reply, didn't move, didn't breathe.

“Saruhiko? Are you still awake?”

The sound of blankets shifting again and Fushimi could imagine the movement, Misaki rolling to his side and placing a hand on his right arm, fingers running over the flame marks, and Fushimi remembered the look on Misaki's face when he'd seen that bonfire on Mikoto's arms.

_(“It's you and me, right?”)_

It should have felt like a relief, that the storm he'd been waiting for had finally broken. 

It wasn't.

**–**

The marks on Fushimi Niki's arm were fading.

Fushimi stood there awkwardly in the hospital morgue, not even really listening as the doctor droned on and on about organ failure and doing everything they could and I'm sorry your mother couldn't come here for this, dryly sympathetic as if it mattered at all to Fushimi, and the whole time Fushimi's eyes kept moving to look at the body lying on the table behind the doctor.

Misaki was waiting outside the door. Fushimi could almost hear him fidgeting, not sure what to do, but he'd insisted on coming along for some stupid reason.

Finally the doctor left, placing a hand on Fushimi's shoulder as he went as if in sympathy. Fushimi didn't quite shrug him off and approached the body slowly.

When a person died, after the organs failed and the breathing ceased, after the heart stopped beating and the skin grew cold, that was when the tattoo started to fade. It went slowly, like chalk on the sidewalk during a rain shower, washed away bit by bit until nothing remained. Niki had been dead for two days now and his tattoo had faded by more than half, the red lightened into nothing and the black gone a washed-out gray. In another day or so it would be gone entirely, wiped out, and nothing would remain but ghost-pale skin.

Fushimi thought that it should have been a relief to him somehow – _“it just means you're meant to be my toy forever,”_ _and a leering grin_ – that it should have been the removal of a weight to know the pattern their arms would have made was nothing more than an unwanted memory.

But it made Fushimi's right hand crawl up his left sleeve just a bit, made him dig his fingers into his arm until he drew blood, more scars to mar the tattoo he'd never asked for and had no use for. Even that half-match was gone now, nothing at all, soon to be just a blank arm on a pale dead corpse.

Misaki had finally found a match, and Fushimi had lost the only one he'd ever had.

Fushimi didn't realize that he'd started to laugh until he heard his own voice echoing along the walls, bitter and trembling and not quite all there, and he didn't know that he was shaking until Misaki's arms wrapped around him, until he heard Misaki's voice begging him to leave this place already.

They walked home in silence, Misaki in front and Fushimi behind, and Fushimi scratched at the scars on his arm. Patterns and colors, blue, red, green.

Blank arms, Fushimi Niki's smile and Suoh Mikoto's flames, and Fushimi's head hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I'd update Tuesday unless something came up...something came up ^^;; (specifically Tumblr screwed up my layout right when I was getting ready to post this). I didn't post it Wednesday because it felt too cruel to do this to Yata on his birthday.

**II. Red**

Everyone in Homra had arms that burned.

Suoh Mikoto's arms were a forest fire, flames a deeper red than even Misaki's, orange-gold along the edges and covering both arms entirely from shoulder to wrist. The flames were mesmerizing in an entirely different way than Misaki's were – if Misaki's flames were the shine Fushimi couldn't turn away from Mikoto's were the bonfire that threatened to burn him alive, like a living beast that would swallow him up if he stared too long.

“Are you two sure about this?” Kusanagi stood behind the bar, a slightly unsettled look on his face. Fushimi had only seen his pattern once, a slow simmering fire that grew the further it stretched down his arm, exploding into a ring of red around his wrist. He was, Fushimi had noticed, the one member of Homra who normally kept his sleeves partially rolled down and didn't seem to mind whether his tattoo was showing or not. Fushimi had already made note of this, that Kusanagi was likely the only sensible member of the group.

The group that he and Misaki were about to be part of, once they passed whatever 'test' Totsuka had nervously alluded to when Misaki had declared their intention to join. Mikoto sat calmly on a stool facing them while the rest of Homra clustered around, watching.

Waiting for them to burst into flames, Fushimi supposed, if the rumors he'd found online were true.

None of the other members had tattoos as impressive as their King, but still the similarities were there. All the idiots in Homra apparently loved wearing short sleeves and shirts with one arm, showing off the stupid patterns of flame and fire and ash. Even Totsuka Tatara, the weakest of them all, had a delicate swirling pattern of flame butterflies along one arm and when he sat beside Mikoto and leaned against him their tattoos looked like two pieces of the same painting, it was only that Totsuka's was where the ink had begun to run out.

“Y-yes!” Misaki's voice was high and thin and he was staring at Mikoto as if the Red King was the center of the entire world. Misaki was wearing his shirt with only one sleeve too, as he always did, and the flames on his arm seemed to dance before Fushimi's eyes, mocking him with the potential matches that surrounded them.

“I'm sure it'll be all right!” Totsuka said lightly, an easy smile on his face. “Don't worry so much, Kusanagi-san.”

“Can we get this over with?” Fushimi had to force himself to sound bored and Totsuka's smile seemed to waver just a little.

“Right.” It was Mikoto who spoke, putting out his cigarette on a nearby ashtray as he sat up straight and held out a hand towards each of them. Fushimi exchanged a curious glance with Misaki.

Mikoto's hands promptly lit up all in red, real flames to match the bonfire on his arms, and Fushimi's vision started to swim just a little.

“Go on.” Mikoto's eyes were calm and deadly serious. “Take my hand.”

Misaki swallowed visibly, turning slightly to look at Fushimi. Fushimi stared impassively back and then Misaki reached out his own hand.

His right hand, that arm with its flame pattern that Fushimi knew so well. His own hand moved and then Fushimi hesitated, not even looking at Mikoto, his eyes only on the spot on Misaki's wrist where the tattoo began. 

Mikoto's hand closed over Misaki's, tightly, pulling him closer so that their arms were nearly touching and as red flared around Misaki's body Fushimi could see it.

The spot where Misaki's flames melded perfectly into Mikoto's. A match.

Misaki saw it too, Fushimi could tell by the way his eyes widened just a bit before the fire burst brightly around his body. Misaki's mouth opened in surprise and Fushimi's entire being seemed to freeze in fright – _fire, again, taking something else he loved_ – but then just as quickly as they'd flared up the flames were gone and Misaki was staring at his hand in open amazement.

Fushimi was aware of Mikoto's gaze shifting to rest on him, heavy enough to pull him down if he didn't watch his feet, and without even thinking he stiffly offered his own hand.

His _left_ hand, and by the time he'd noticed Mikoto's hand had already closed over his.

Pain flared inside his head and his chest, hot and burning and he couldn't breathe, his whole body seizing with the shock of it and Fushimi wondered if he was about to burn to death right there in the bar, with Misaki next to him and yet not even bothering to watch the flames swallow him whole.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mikoto's hand clench slightly over his and for just a moment that fire on Mikoto's arm touched against the slight red leaf markings on Fushimi's wrist. And for just a moment, a single fleeting moment with his vision blurred by pain and heat, Fushimi could almost see something like a pattern forming.

Then the pain was gone and Fushimi's hand jerked sharply in Mikoto's grip, nearly breaking contact entirely. The spot where their marks met was suddenly nothing more than a mismatch of blue against red, not fitting at all.

Mikoto seemed to relax – and it was odd, because Fushimi couldn't recall having seen him tense – and he let go of Fushimi's hand, the clear clash of colors and the phantom pattern both broken at once.

“Saruhiko!” Misaki was smiling at him, guileless and happy, looking at something on his chest. Fushimi followed his gaze and saw the mark there, a dark red flame just below his collarbone. Misaki had one too, clearly visible in the exact same spot.

“That's rare.” Kusanagi leaned over the bar to look at them before glancing at Mikoto. “Mikoto, did you do that on purpose?”

Mikoto only shrugged, lighting another cigarette. A small cheer rose up from the surrounding members and someone walked over and slapped Misaki proudly on the shoulder.

Misaki's eyes were dancing and he was holding onto his wrist with one hand, fingers running reverently over the spot where his flames had dipped easily into Mikoto's.

Fushimi thought he might faint, might throw up, and he pulled his sleeves down.

Everyone in Homra had flames along their arms, and at that moment Fushimi knew it was only a matter of time before they burned him hollow.

–

Fushimi sat in a corner of the bar, idly stirring his fingertip in a glass of water.

“You saw it too, right, Yata-san? It was _definitely_ really amazing!”

“Huh? Y-yeah, it was! So you shouldn't hide it, Anna!”

Fushimi clicked his tongue, eyes sliding over to the group of loudmouths crowded near the doorway. Yata stood in the middle of them all, flame tattoo on display as always, smiling as he leaned down to look Anna in the face. Her long bell-like sleeves covered both her arms completely but they had all seen her tattoo back when she'd been rescued from the center – a magnificent phoenix in flight that was inked on the pale white skin of each of her upper arms.

“You don't see a nice tattoo like that too often.” From next to Yata Kamamoto nodded sagely, crossing his arms, thick red lines like torchlight near his right wrist. “You should be proud of it, Anna!”

“Mmm.” Anna smiled tentatively back at them and Fushimi curled his lip, looking away. The voices behind him continued.

“But we should've known Anna belonged here from the start.” One of the members whose name Fushimi hadn't bothered to learn laughed. “With a tattoo like that.”

“Eh? _All_ the guys can't have tattoos like this, right?” Misaki's voice again and Fushimi couldn't help but look back at him, feeling something like cruel satisfaction run through him.

_That's right, Misaki. That match is nothing special, not when it belongs to a hundred other people._

His hand began to creep under his left sleeve, picking at one of the red scar marks where he'd scratched too hard.

“No, I think everyone who passed the test had something like this.” Another new voice. “It's kinda like Homra's mark, isn't it? Mikoto-san connects himself to his people with the marks he gives us, and we're connected to him through the ones we already have.”

“Huh? That's kinda sentimental, isn't it?” Someone laughed. “Hey, Yata...what about Fushimi?”

Fushimi's hand twitched, ripples in the water.

“Eh?” Misaki made a curious noise. “What're you talking about?”

“You know...” A lowered voice, conspiratorial, and Fushimi heard anyway. “Someone said he doesn't have one. A soulmate mark.”

_I'm right here, idiots._ Fushimi grimaced and waited for Misaki's reply.

“Ah! That's...” Misaki's voice trailed off.

“He's always got those long sleeves on,” someone else chimed in. “So no one's seen what his tattoo even looks like. But you've seen it, right?”

“Well...I haven't, but...”

“Huh?” A collective noise of surprise. “Even you haven't seen his tattoo? I thought you guys were close.”

“Y-yeah, but – well, anyway, Saruhiko definitely has a tattoo, so why does it matter if I've seen it or not?” There was definitely something odd in Misaki's voice, something not quite confident, and Fushimi felt his shoulders stiffen.

“Come on, if even you've never seen it how do you know it's there?” There was a pregnant pause and Fushimi could feel the room going cold around him. “He really might not have one at all then, right?”

“Can that happen? You wouldn't even have a soulmate! That's...that's _creepy._ ”

“But if Yata's never seen it and neither has anyone else...” 

“Cut it out already!” Misaki's angry voice rang out clearly. “Stop talking like that about Saruhiko! He's...he's got a tattoo.”

And even as Misaki said the words Fushimi could hear the clear hesitance there, a declaration that should have been confident twisted nervous and unsure. Abruptly he pushed away from the bar, stool scraping harshly against the floor. The group gathered by the door looked up.

“Saruhiko!” Misaki's eyes were pained and Fushimi suddenly realized that until that moment Misaki hadn't even remembered that Fushimi was there at all. 

“I'm going back.” Fushimi didn't look at him, couldn't look at him. He forced his hands to remain down at his side, fighting the urge to grab his left arm and pull it close against his body as he stormed out the door.

“Saruhiko, wait!” Misaki's hand closed over his arm and Fushimi's shoulders jerked sharply, hissing in irritation as he pulled away. Misaki was staring at him with desperate eyes and the expression made Fushimi's chest hurt. “Hey...everyone was just kidding, okay? Nobody thinks you don't have...I mean, you do, right?”

_(“It's not true...The rumor. I have a mark.”_

_“Ah, I thought so. Thanks for telling me, Fushimi!”_

_Words that had been enough, then, when Misaki hadn't believed in his own soulmate let alone anyone else's.)_

“Maybe.” Fushimi felt a frozen smile cutting its way across his face like a blade and he could see the way Misaki's gaze wavered. 

“Saruhiko...”

“It's fine, Misaki.” His head hurt and he suddenly couldn't do it anymore, couldn't stare at those flames on Misaki's arms and pretend they weren't making his head swim. “I'm tired so I'm going home. I'll see you later.”

“But...” Misaki's eyes darted to his arm and then back up to meet his eyes. “Don't worry about those guys, all right, Saruhiko? I know you have a soulmate mark. Everyone's got one, so...”

He smiled then and it should have been confident, should have been easy, should have made Fushimi feel relaxed in the way only Misaki could.

But Misaki's smile wavered just a little as he spoke and Fushimi felt as though the pattern on his arms was digging itself into his skin, seeping into his bloodstream, bone-deep and marking him out again and again as someone who didn't – who would never – belong.

When he got back to the apartment he climbed into bed and rolled up his sleeves, and pulled out a knife.

–

Fushimi felt hot and sick as he kicked at the unconscious body slumped on the ground. His head was spinning but he forced himself to remain on his feet.

“Saruhiko, are you sure you're all right?” Misaki called from behind him, still crouched near the back of the alley with his bat idly resting against one shoulder. Three more people were lying there next to him, also unconscious, the remains of a rival gang that had attempted a surprise attack on the two of them.

“I'm fine.” Fushimi didn't even look at him, licking his dry cracked lips. “Shouldn't you be paying attention to yourself? If I hadn't been here they would've gotten the jump on you easily.”

“Yeah, but...” He'd expected Misaki to get angry but Misaki was still looking at him with furrowed brows and worried eyes. 

It was an abnormally hot day even for summer but still Fushimi wore long sleeves. Misaki had been bugging him about that all morning, ever since Fushimi had walked out of the bathroom with a parka thrown over his short-sleeved shirt. It was way too hot out for that, Misaki had complained, and Fushimi was going to get heatstroke if he kept it up. Fushimi had just clicked his tongue and told Misaki to worry about himself instead.

It hadn't mattered once they got to the bar anyway. Mikoto had been there, so by that point Fushimi could have worn three winter coats piled over him and Misaki wouldn't have so much as looked his way.

Kusanagi had sent the two of them out on a mission to take care of some small time thugs causing problems in Homra's territory. He'd given Fushimi a look and shook his head slightly as they left, having clearly noted the sweat beginning to form on Fushimi's forehead. Fushimi had ignored him, ignored all of them, and focused on the flames covering Misaki's arm instead.

It felt like those flames were burning him all the time now, every time he looked at Misaki. The memory was still clear and sharp in his mind – the look on Misaki's face when his tattoo had pressed against Mikoto's for that one perfect moment.

“Saruhiko.” Misaki placed a hand on his shoulder and he tried to not to flinch. It seemed ridiculous now – the touch that he'd once welcomed, once craved above everything, the only person he'd ever let lay hands on him so easily and now all he wanted to do was pull away every time. “Maybe you should lie down or something? Or at least take the parka off...”

Misaki's hands moved lower, eyes darting towards Fushimi's left sleeve – always the left sleeve, because even a idiot like Misaki had no doubt at least figured out which arm was _the_ arm, assuming there was one – and Fushimi's lip curled as he pulled away.

“Don't want to.” Fushimi took a step out of the alley and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Why does it matter to you what I wear? You're always going on about it. It's annoying.”

“Because I'm worried about you!” Misaki snapped. His brow was furrowed and he was looking at Fushimi with eyes that made Fushimi want to throw up. “I mean...this is just like middle school, right? You're always dressed way too much for the weather and then you feel sick. What if you got dizzy when you were alone? You could get hurt or something.”

“I can handle myself,” Fushimi said coldly.

“But...we're all comrades, right?” Misaki's smile was easy, too easy, and he didn't even seem to notice the way Fushimi grit his teeth at the words. “Besides, what's so bad about letting anyone see your arms? Everyone else at Homra shows theirs off, no one's gonna...judge you for it, or anything. You don't wanna be misunderstood by everyone again, right?”

_So that's what it is._ Fushimi wanted to smack him away, to scream until his voice gave out. _What happened to 'it doesn't matter?' What happened to 'it's you and me'?_

In the back of his mind he heard Aya again, her voice scornful and mocking as it echoed all through the hollows and crevices of his soul, taunting him the same way those patterns on his arm did every time he looked at them.

_“You know Misaki-kun has someone out there who's actually meant for him, right?”_

He'd always known it, really. That all their time together, those days he'd foolishly allowed himself to treasure, all of that had come with a time limit. Misaki's entire being focused only on him, until the day Misaki finally found a real true match.

A soulmate.

And how could someone who didn't match at all – _'the probability rate is only 10% – no, 5%'_ even jungle's King had known it – ever, ever compete with someone that did? It didn't matter if Misaki and Mikoto were only one of many matches. It was still _a_ match if not _the_ match, and Fushimi didn't even have that.

The other truth, too – even if Mikoto wasn't a perfect match, his presence proved one could exist. If Fushimi couldn't even hold up to that minor match then what hope would he have at all when Misaki inevitably met his real soulmate, the person he was destined for?

Soon to be nothing at all, and Fushimi knew it.

“I'm going back to the bar.” He didn't need to be understood, not by anyone. Not even Misaki, and for a moment it felt as if those markings on his arm were draining him dry again, all the cuts and scratches he'd carved bleeding out at the same time.

“Saruhiko!” Misaki's voice was muffled and echoed strangely, as though Fushimi was standing in the middle of an empty building and Misaki was yelling to him from far far away.

The sky whirled around him and Fushimi felt his feet slipping out from under him as the sun went out.

–

“It's really pretty, Fushimi. You shouldn't cover it up like that.”

If he'd had the energy Fushimi would have glared at Totsuka for that, but as it was he could only manage a slight grimace as Totsuka ran a cool cloth over his forehead.

“Yata will be back soon so just rest a little, all right?” Totsuka smiled easily and the red butterflies on his arm seemed to waver in front of Fushimi's eyes as Totsuka held a glass of water up to his lips. Fushimi rolled over onto his side so that he wouldn't have to look at Totsuka's face.

The last thing he remembered was Misaki's voice, yelling his name as he fainted. When he knew where he was again he was lying stretched out on the couch in Bar Homra, his parka removed and his sleeves rolled up, ridiculous tattoo on display for all to see, and someone was wiping his forehead with a cold cloth. He'd immediately tried to cover his arm only to feel Totsuka's gentle hands pushing him back down and Totsuka's soft voice telling him to rest.

They'd sent Misaki down to the nearest store to buy some more ice and popsicles – one of the fridges at the bar had broken the day before and Kusanagi was running low on ice himself – while Totsuka tended to Fushimi. Fushimi had no idea where Mikoto was but he'd seen Anna a couple times, hovering just behind Totsuka and watching him with wide worried eyes.

“Kusanagi-san said you need to keep hydrated.” Totsuka held the glass in front of him again and Fushimi eyes narrowed even as he allowed Totsuka to help him, cold water dripping from the sides of his mouth as he drank. Fushimi pulled his arm closer to his body almost unconsciously, patterns of red and blue and green standing out stark against his sweat-soaked skin.

“I'm fine,” Fushimi muttered, aware even as he spoke the words that his voice was hoarse and thin.

“Of course.” Totsuka laughed, light as the ink on his arm. Flames and butterflies, and he reached out as if to touch Fushimi's arm. Fushimi pulled back immediately, instinctively.

_(Children's games, always. 'What's your tattoo look like?', the innocent question that dictated the rest of a person's miserable life. Like flocked to like, and there was no place at all for green and blue amongst a sea of deep red flames.)_

“It's awfully hot out to keep your arms covered,” Totsuka said conversationally, but his eyes were knowing and Fushimi made a face at him.

“I was cold.”

“Is that so?” Clearly not fooled but Totsuka took the answer anyway, a weak little flame that never settled anywhere long enough to burn. “Yata didn't see it, you know. I only took it off after he left because you looked so pale.”

“I didn't ask you to.” There was a chill in Fushimi's voice at least, even with the rest of him still burning. 

“I know. Sorry.” Totsuka laughed just a little, wiping the cloth over Fushimi's forehead. “But anyway, Fushimi...it really is pretty, you know. Your arm.”

Fushimi didn't answer, turning away from him again. Totsuka didn't say anything more, only stood and went to refill the empty glass. 

“Pretty.” Fushimi's lip curled bitterly, and he reached for his parka.

By the time Totsuka returned with another glass of water Fushimi had covered his arm again. Totsuka gave a small almost fond sigh and Fushimi fixed him with a feverish glare, all but daring him to try and remove the parka one more time.

“Fushimi...”

“I'm back!” The bell above the door rang wildly and Fushimi tried not to flinch at the loud voice that echoed in the air.

“Ah, just in time, Yata!” Totsuka waved at him and Misaki walked over hurriedly, depositing a bag of ice on the counter as he went. Fushimi immediately rolled over onto his other side so he wouldn't have to look at either of them.

“How's Saruhiko?” There might have been worry in that voice, Fushimi thought, or maybe just irritation at having to deal with this situation again and again. Either way, it didn't matter.

“He's awake,” Totsuka said. “Say, Yata...why don't you take Fushimi home? He'd probably be more comfortable back there.”

“Ah, well, yeah, but...” There was still that unidentifiable note in Misaki's voice and Fushimi sat up abruptly, ignoring the way the world spun in front of him.

“I can go back by myself.” He tried to stand and his legs suddenly gave out from under him, forcing him back down. Misaki's hand was immediately on his shoulder.

“H-hey, Saruhiko, careful!” 

“Don't overdo it too much, okay, Fushimi?” Totsuka's voice was gentle and it set Fushimi's teeth on edge. “Yata can help you back.”

“I don't need a babysitter.” Fushimi forced himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the dizziness threatening to overtake him again. Misaki reached for his hand and Fushimi yanked it away, steps weaving noticeably as he crossed the floor. He sagged against the door, which nonetheless opened easily under his hands and then he was out in the sticky summer air, head swimming.

“Saruhiko, wait!” He'd barely gotten a step down the sidewalk when Misaki came running after him. Fushimi felt a burning rush of anger sweep through him, a bonfire to match the one on Mikoto's arms.

_Don't come for me. I don't need you to come for me_ now, _when you've already thrown me away._ He didn't need it, didn't need Misaki to pretend as though it still didn't matter to him that the two of them weren't soulmates when it did, it had to. He hadn't forgotten it, that moment of hesitation in response to the inevitable rumor that chased him down wherever he went.

“Saruhiko!” Misaki reached for him and Fushimi slapped his hand away roughly. “Hey! What the hell, Saruhiko, I'm just trying to help you! You look like shit, come on--”

“I can handle myself.” It was like a poison building in his veins, an infection that covered his arm red, green and blue and he knew that Misaki would never, _never_ understand at all. Someone who could find a hundred matches – _pages and pages, burned up by real flames as if it made those markings on Misaki's arms any less a mismatch with his own –_ would never understand what it was to have a soulmate mark that was nothing but a cancer staining his flesh.

“You know, you've been acting really weird lately, Saruhiko.” Misaki's voice was irritated but the open concern in his eyes only made Fushimi's fists clench even harder, fingers digging into his palms. “What's wrong with you? Everybody's just trying to be friendly and you keep--”

“I don't need a lecture from _you,_ ” Fushimi sneered. “There's nothing wrong with me, Misaki.” 

_(Just everything.)_

“Saruhiko...” Misaki tried a tentative smile. “L-look, I get it, you feel gross right now so you're just acting like an asshole because it makes you feel better. I'll take you back to the apartment and--”

“I said, I can walk by myself.” _I don't need you. I don't need any of you. When have I ever needed it, 'comrades,' 'soulmates.' Just words, with nothing behind them at all._ “Don't you have better things to do than stand out here like an idiot, Misaki?” He could feel the smirk on his face twisting into something colder. “Mikoto-san's back in the bar, isn't he? Maybe you should go stand next to him with your stupid mark hanging out. Who knows, you two might be _soulmates.”_

He put all the scorn he could into the last word and still he could see it in Misaki's face, a moment's sincere wonder, and suddenly Fushimi felt like he was about to faint again. He didn't give Misaki time to answer, only turned on his heel and walked away.

Misaki called after him, once, but didn't follow.

–

By the time he got back to the apartment Fushimi felt almost ready to faint again, sweat dripping sticky and uncomfortable down the back of his neck. His clothes felt heavy and he pulled the parka off as soon as he was safely inside, tossing it into the laundry basket without another look. He was still too hot even so, his mouth dry and his head spinning as he crossed the floor to the bathroom.

He didn't even realize that he hadn't bothered to take the rest of his clothes off until he was standing under the showerhead, the cold water waking him up a little. Fushimi's lip curled in a sardonic smile and he peeled off his wet clothes, leaving them in a heap on the bathroom floor and setting his glasses aside as he stumbled back into the shower.

The water felt good, the heat that had been radiating through him going dull and numb. Fushimi sagged a little against the wall of the shower, not bathing so much as allowing the water to hit him until he felt like he could breathe again.

His eyes slid down to his left arm, bare at his side. The patterns looked even more ridiculous with his blurred eyesight, even more of a mess than he remembered them being. And there were marks, too – where his nails had dug in, where he'd used the knife. Some were fresh, red and raw against white skin, against blue and green, others old and nearly healed. And some, too deep to heal – old blood and scars, breaking apart already jagged lines and imperfect shapes. He ran his fingers slowly along the skin, feeling the rough trace of the marks against his fingertips – the tattoo itself smooth but all those scars creating something like a map across his skin, ridges and crevices where skin buckled or scabbed. 

It wasn't normal, he knew that. Soulmate marks were something to be treasured, or so it was always said. He remembered sitting in class in grade school, listening to teachers drone on about the sanctity of the mark – sanctity, in front of a class full of children who all bared their marks on the first day of school without a moment's hesitation – about how one should always take care to make sure the marks remained clear because even the smallest imperfection could be the difference between a true match and a missed opportunity. Anyone normal, he supposed, would be disgusted at the sight of his arm now, a mess of colors and patterns and _scars,_ and with a vicious smile Fushimi dug his nails into one of the healing cuts until it bled fresh. The blood dripped down his arm, diluted by the water of the shower and then swirling pink down the drain.

_(“It really is pretty, you know. Your arm.” And surely Totsuka had seen it too, seen what he'd done, and yet said nothing, letting things work themselves out as always rather than admit to the wrongness of what was in front of him.)_

_Stupid._ A ridiculous fiction mouthed again and again by worthless adults. _Sanctity of the mark,_ and it wasn't like he didn't remember the flashing ads in the internet cafe, wasn't like he hadn't seen the cosmetics commercials promising to enhance the 'purity' of your color. A million ways to blare your soul to the world and still pretend that it meant anything at all beyond another social maker, the same as wealth or status, showing everyone where you fit. And if you didn't, well, that said something too.

Though maybe there was something in between the spaces of it and his hands ran along the edges of the tattoo again, all the points where the patterns didn't quite fit even the other halves of themselves. Not a soulmate but a _soul,_ everyone's mark a hint of what they would become. It would explain Misaki's fiery personality that entranced everyone around him, the same as those glittering flames.

And that would explain it, too, why Fushimi's tattoo was a fucking mess.

He laughed then, choking and hollow, and Fushimi's hands shook as he turned off the water and stumbled out of the shower. He stood there dripping on the floor for a few minutes, sagging limply against the sink as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale, and sick, and somehow it made Fushimi smile as he toweled himself off.

His clothes were still damp but he'd left a cardigan hanging on the doorknob from who knew how many days ago and he pulled that on instead, feeling better with his tattoo covered even though he was the only one in the apartment. All the heat from before had trickled away with the water and he felt chilled instead, hands balling inside the sleeves like a child wearing their parent's clothes.

It took him a moment to open the door, numb fingers slipping against the doorknob. He felt feverish despite the cold, as if he'd come down with a virus he couldn't shake, and he stumbled as he stepped out of the bathroom.

“Saruhiko? Are you oka--hey!” Something collided with him and Fushimi fell backwards, head hitting against the floor hard enough to make him wince.

And then he was aware of it, warm breath against his face, and Fushimi looked upwards to see Misaki leaning over him, so close their faces were almost touching.

“S-sorry!” Misaki's face was bright red with embarrassment but he wasn't moving, body half-draped over Fushimi's and Fushimi was suddenly hyper aware of his own nakedness, body covered only by the loose cardigan. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Fushimi asked stiffly, wanting to push Misaki away but his limbs somehow too cold to move.

“I _live_ here, remember?” Misaki shifted slightly, palms flat against the floor on either side of Fushimi's head, but he didn't stand up. “Anyway I was--” Misaki swallowed hard. “I was worried about you. You weren't answering any of my texts.”

Fushimi belatedly remembered that his PDA was still in the front pocket of his parka, thrown in a pile in the laundry basket. He scowled anyway.

“I wasn't aware you were my keeper, Misaki,” Fushimi replied. His heart was pounding hard as though trying to escape his chest and he was too aware of it, Misaki pressed down close to him, one leg in between both of Fushimi's and Fushimi's body all pale naked limbs and heaving chest.

And his tattoo, still covered.

“Y-yeah, but...someone has to watch out for you, right?” Misaki seemed to have trouble finding his own voice, his eyes locked on to Fushimi's. There was the slightest flush to his cheeks, or maybe it was only Fushimi's imagination running away from him again. “I thought maybe something had – happened, or--” He trailed off weakly. “Saruhiko...”

“I'm tired of you worrying about me.” The words came out nothing but a croak, and there was water dripping slowly down his face. “I'm not a child, Misaki.”

“How the hell am I supposed to _stop_ worrying about you?” Misaki seemed genuinely upset and Fushimi had no idea why. His face was so close though, warm breath like fire on Fushimi's cheeks, burning all the way down his body.  “You're—you're my best friend.”

_Best friend._ It might have meant something, once. But it wasn't _soulmate,_ and they both knew it.

“Saruhiko--” Misaki leaned down just a little more, and there was something hazy in his expression that Fushimi couldn't place, a _need_ that he didn't seem to be able to get past his throat, and Fushimi almost wanted to angle his head up, take those unspoken words from Misaki's mouth and catch them in his own and then maybe at last they could come to an understanding.

And then Misaki's gaze shifted to Fushimi's covered left arm, and Fushimi felt everything in his body seize up as though he'd been caught in a vise.

“Saruhiko...can I see...” The words came out a stumbling wreck, and one of Misaki's hands moved to touch Fushimi's sleeve.

Everything came crashing down at once, a million glasses shattering in his head, and Fushimi gathered enough strength to raise one leg and slam it into Misaki's side.

“H-hey!” Misaki collapsed off of him with a cry of pain, clutching his side where he'd been hit. Fushimi didn't even give him time to recover, already on his feet despite the distinct sway in his posture. All the heat had rushed upwards to his face, burning behind his eyes. “What the _hell,_ Saruhiko, I was just--”

“Shut up.” Fushimi forced the words out as though spitting poison from a wound. “Just—what? Did you want to see it for yourself, Misaki, is that it?” Fushimi placed a hand on his left sleeve as though to pull it up and he could see the subtle shift in Misaki's expression, wondering no doubt once again about the veracity of those rumors that never went away. Fushimi gave a barking laugh and dropped his hand. “If it makes you feel better, Misaki, I'll tell you. There's _nothing_ there. It's been fun, seeing how long you'd believe me for, but it's gotten old now.” Misaki's face seemed to crumble slightly, as though he wasn't sure if Fushimi was lying this time or not, and Fushimi turned away from him, waving a hand as he went back towards the bed. “I haven't got a soulmate, Misaki. There, don't you feel better now? Knowing it for sure?”

He laughed as he climbed back onto his own bunk, but the voice didn't sound like his at all.

Fushimi fell over onto his side and pulled a blanket over his head, not caring that he was still mostly naked and that his skin and hair were damp. There was a profound silence behind him and it made him want to curl up even tighter in the sheets, as if he could disappear into them.

Then, just before he went to sleep, a soft voice that might have been only a dream.

“You're a shitty liar, Saruhiko.”

**–**

Scepter 4's uniforms had long sleeves.

It was something Fushimi had always noted in the back of his mind, whenever he and Yata engaged with the Blue King's men. In spite of all the stupid fashions designed to bare part or all of one's soulmate mark Scepter 4's blue coats still covered their arms to the wrists and there was no way of knowing what markings were painted there.

He noticed it more and more, now. When he and Misaki were sent to distract a patrol – together, still, play-acting a team as if that day in the apartment had never happened at all – Fushimi found his eyes drawn inexorably to those long blue sleeves. When they rescued Minato Hayato and Minato Akito he saw it again, their matching blue uniforms with no visible tattoos at all.

_(He wondered if their tattoos were the same and if that made things easier, or harder.)_

And he noticed it, the first time he laid eyes on Munakata Reisi.

He'd always assumed, somehow, that Kings would have their tattoos on display. It seemed like something that would have made sense; like flocked to like, and how else to know if there was potential in the match if the tattoo couldn't be seen at all. Fushimi hadn't said anything about it, of course – what business of his was it at all, what kind of tattoo the Blue King had? But he found his eyes trailing over to Munakata's sleeves again and again, and it was there he was staring when Munakata smirked and said ' _A hidden weapon user… would be a chess piece that comes in handy._ '

His gaze had been immediately wrenched away and he'd found himself staring into a pair of violet eyes that seemed to know _exactly_ what he'd been looking at moments before. Fushimi had felt a shudder run through his body, and he'd unconsciously reached for his left arm.

It wouldn't be until a few days later that he finally got his answer, sitting in one of Scepter 4's vans opposite their King, watching Munakata work on a jigsaw puzzle as though he was piecing together the universe. It was stupid, of course – who played with jigsaw puzzles besides little kids anyway, and there was nothing special about the way the Blue King slowly but surely placed each and every piece in the exact correct spot without a moment's hesitation. Fushimi clicked his tongue, forcing his gaze away as he moved to stand and then immediately paying for his pointless fascination by falling face first into a pile of spare pieces. He struggled up onto his arms and that was when he heard Munakata's voice again, calm and sure.

“… I could really use a hidden weapon user…" 

Even though he hadn't so much as looked at Fushimi's tattoo. Even though this man had no idea if they were anything like compatible, even though he had no idea if Fushimi's mark even existed, he'd still said such things. Fushimi felt his heart pounding again, in an entirely different way than that day with Misaki but somehow no less exhilarating.

And then a person wearing that guy's face burst in through the door, and everything fell away.

Fushimi's whole body tensed and screamed as he tried to drag himself to his feet, fear and adrenaline overcoming the numbness that had settled in. Niki's eyes were bright and his smile was wide and on his arm there was a mark – _black and red and almost, almost a match and hadn't he seen that mark fade, hadn't he seen the way it died, and yet, and_ yet – and Fushimi reached for a knife.

“Fushimi-kun!”

Munakata stepped forward, lunged for him and grabbed his wrist in an unshakeable grip. Fushimi tried to pull away and as he did Munakata's sleeve fell back, just a bit, and Fushimi could see it.

On Munakata Reisi's right arm there was an entire galaxy.

It was all deep blues, as expected, an array of midnight, small empty spots like stars where his skin peeked through. Even with only the smallest glimpse Fushimi suddenly knew, too, how that galaxy must have extended up the rest of the arm and all along the other one as well, a universe of spiraling stars and whirling planets contained in Munakata Reisi's arms.

And the other thing, too--

Fushimi had pulled the knife with his left hand, and that was the wrist Munakata had grabbed. And for the very briefest of moments as Fushimi pulled back that complicated galaxy of stars had pressed up slightly against the mess of red and blue and green on Fushimi's arm where his own sleeve had been pushed down by the movement. Even with his mind distracted and that man still laughing in front of him Fushimi found himself staring at that arm where skin met skin and for just a moment, just a single moment, there had been _something like a match._

Not a perfect match, of course. The lines hadn't quite met, the colors didn't quite compliment each other perfectly, Fushimi's red against Munakata's blue. But almost a match. Almost a pattern that made _sense._

Something that shouldn't have mattered to him one bit, not after all this time.

But it did.

**–**

“Such a man full of reasons.”

Fushimi felt himself trembling slightly as he stood there between two Kings. Munakata's sleeves were uncharacteristically rolled up now, as though he'd been preparing for a fight with the Green King who had spoken to Fushimi and then retreated without a fight. That blue galaxy could be seen almost in full now, just as Fushimi had imagined it, deep dark blue – and yet despite the color, despite the stars, somehow he couldn't help but feel like it almost fit with the arms of the man standing opposite him: Suoh Mikoto, and his bonfire still burning.

Fushimi's hands felt clammy as he looked between them, his mind still reeling. He'd dealt with his own problem, as he'd been told, and Munakata had stepped in at the end to chase the Green King away and claim the prize for his own.

'Prize,' as if Fushimi was a valuable thing at all, and he could have laughed if Mikoto wasn't right there in front of him stealing all his breath even as his eyes never so much as moved from Munakata Reisi's face.

“Fushimi. Reasons don’t matter. What do you want to do?”

Fushimi couldn't stop the near flinch at the sound of his name and he hated himself for it, hated the way his body reacted without his being able to compel it at all. No matter what he did, he was still afraid of Suoh Mikoto, of this man whose tattoo matched Misaki's in all the ways Fushimi's never would.

“Fushimi Saruhiko-kun.” Munakata, now. “Let’s start over formally. With great honor I invite you. Would you join my Scepter 4?”

Fushimi could see the choice laid out there in front of him now: two Kings. Two soulmate marks, one that almost matched and one that wouldn't – despite that momentary glimpse so long ago ( _“take my hand”)_ Fushimi knew it, knew it in his very core, that they had always been fundamentally incompatible, he and Suoh Mikoto.

Suoh Mikoto, whose soulmate tattoo formed a pattern with Misaki's.

Two Kings, one on either side of him, and a shadow between. Fushimi's hand clenched over his left arm.

It didn't matter. That mark didn't matter. He was only making the choice that made the most sense for him. He was only making the choice because Misaki never would, even when the path in front of them had been clear from the very start, despite how hard they'd both tried not to see it. 

Fushimi nodded his head, and stepped towards Munakata Reisi's side.

**–**

There was a mark on his chest, burned black and smoking, pain shooting through him with every breath, and Fushimi could smell the scent of his own burnt flesh.

He stood there alone in the alley, still breathing in the burn of Misaki's anger, drunk on the pain jolting through his veins and the remembrance of Misaki's blistering eyes. His chest hurt and his breathing was erratic, and somewhere deep down Fushimi knew that he should probably go back to Scepter 4 for treatment or else the wound would fester and scar.

Fushimi laughed, choking on it like smoke. Let it fester, then. Let it scar.

He'd always wondered why only Suoh Mikoto chose to mark his people. There was meaning in it, that mark, how could there not be when people wore the marks of their souls across their arms. He'd wondered if maybe it was a fragment of Mikoto's soul too, that he spread to pieces and offered only to those he deemed worthy. Fushimi had thought then that perhaps his portion had been a mistake, had to have been a mistake, because he bore the same Homra mark as everyone else and in the exact same spot as Misaki and how could that be, he who matched no one.

Now that mark was just a burnt scar, worn away by his own hands. That piece of Suoh Mikoto's soul burnt like ashes and he and Misaki weren't anything at all like a match anymore, even in the places that didn't count.

His hands were still glowing red with fire and Fushimi found himself staring at his left arm.

He remembered those articles that he'd read, what seemed like a lifetime ago in the middle of the night inside an internet cafe. Stories about people whose arms had been disfigured, ripped off, _burned._ Some were uplifting, the lucky ones whose files in the National Registry were clear enough representations of what their tattoos had once been that they were legally allowed to have those tattoos reproduced, _fixed_ , so that they could live 'normal' lives – normal, because someone without a soulmate wasn't normal at all. Most of the stories were tragedies though, laments for a soulmate who would never be found with that tattoo destroyed.

He pulled at his sleeve almost frantically, baring part of his left arm to the open air. Fushimi felt himself trembling as his fingers hovered a hairsbreadth above the tattoo, right at the spot where red curled into blue. Along his wrist he could see those delicate leaf patterns, the red that had, for just the briefest of moments, seemed to match perfectly with the bonfire on Suoh Mikoto's arms.

Fushimi's heart seemed to beat too loud in his chest, pounding so fast he felt lightheaded and in a single decisive motion he drove his burning fingers straight into the skin at his wrist.

There was a sharp burst of pain, even more intense than the one still aching by his collar, and the smell of burnt flesh was making him feel ill. Even so he kept his fingers there pressed against the mark until the red pattern had become distorted by skin that bubbled and melted beneath his touch. It would grow back, he knew, become a mass of scarred cracked flesh that wouldn't heal even if he was willing to let it.

Fushimi removed his hand, let his arms fall back to his sides as he turned to walk away. 

The mark on his chest was gone, along with the only other thing that could tie him to Suoh Mikoto, to Misaki, any further. It was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly later update than intended, but still within the week ^^;; Also, having finally finished the rough of the final chapter, I can say that yes, the rating will be going up later :P

**III. Blue**

“Ah, Fushimi-kun. Welcome to Scepter 4.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue, hands in his pockets as he stood in front of the Blue King. There was a blue coat folded on the desk between them.

He'd gone back to Scepter 4 immediately after parting with Misaki. His chest and his arm both still ached, small stings of pain from where he'd burned his skin. Both were covered with bandages for now, at Munakata's insistence, but Fushimi intended to remove those as soon as he could. The bandages itched and besides, he wanted to see those burns, touch them.

Remember what he'd given up, and why.

“Officially, you will now be part of the intelligence division.” Munakata's smile was cool and polite but there was a challenge lying behind it and Fushimi answered it easily, leaning on the edge of the desk as if bored.

“And unofficially?”

“You will be under my direct supervision.” Munakata's eyes were shining and Fushimi nodded, accepting. That would be easy enough. “There is, of course, the matter of the installation ceremony first. But I believe there should be nothing to fear. I do not give power out as freely as Suoh Mikoto does.”

“Then let's get it over with already.” Fushimi tried to sound uninterested even though part of him couldn't help but wonder what exactly Scepter 4's initiation ceremony entailed. Maybe he would be expected to put together another of Munakata's ridiculous puzzles and his reward would be blue power floating up from the pieces. Fushimi couldn't help a slight smirk at the thought.

“In due time. I have scheduled the ceremony for tomorrow, to give you time to recharge and prepare. You have had a rather trying day, I imagine.” Munakata's gaze rested momentarily on Fushimi's bandages, something like amused exasperation passing briefly over his features. “Awashima-kun will assist you in memorizing the correct procedure for carrying out the ceremony. The rest of the force will be present, of course. It is not often I get to initiate such a promising new member into our ranks.”

Fushimi rolled his eyes but didn't reply. Munakata didn't seem to mind, indicating the blue coat still folded between them.

“Your uniform. Please wear it at the ceremony.”

Fushimi inclined his head as he gathered the uniform into his arms. 

“Now, you are free to return to your room. I would like you to get some rest before tomorrow, as I will require you to be in your best condition for the mission I intend to assign you.”

_'The mission,'_ no doubt referring to the pending capture of the Minato twins. Fushimi's fingers tightened just a little on the coat as he made his way to the door.

“Ah, Fushimi-kun.” The sound of Munakata's voice made him pause. “I have modified the uniform slightly, in light of your...unique situation, as far as weaponry goes. I do hope it meets your expectations.”

_Expectations?_ Fushimi had no idea what Munakata would have meant by that – it wasn't as though he had any particular interest in Scepter 4's uniform, beyond the fact that it had two sleeves.

The meaning became clear an hour later, standing in front of the mirror in his dorm with the coat draped over his shoulders. Most of Scepter 4's personnel slept two to a room but Fushimi had refused outright and demanded a room of his own. Munakata had acquiesced easily and it had perhaps been a slight weight off, if nothing else – no slips, not this time, no Misaki to walk in on him and stare down at an arm accidentally bared. Or so he'd thought, until he put on his uniform.

Scepter 4's standard uniform covered the arm almost entirely, crisp and official and hiding the colors and patterns that were surely marked on each and every member of the force.

Fushimi's uniform was slightly big, and loose, and bared his arms from elbow to wrist. Fushimi's felt a sardonic smile wind its way across his face, sick-looking and twisted in the mirror's reflection in front of him, and his arm looked the same as always – red, blue and green, white where the bandage covered the burn on his wrist, and nowhere at all a match even within itself.

He shrugged the coat off, left it lying there on the floor as he pulled on a sweater. He was free to do as he liked until tomorrow's ceremony, after all, and Munakata had given him an unexpected amount of freedom already. One more indulgence would be nothing.

The next day he stood on a rain-soaked parade ground outside of Scepter 4 headquarters. A voice called his name and told him to come forward, and Fushimi walked out without a moment's hesitation.

Munakata was waiting for him, eyes sparkling with an interest that somehow made Fushimi's heart beat faster in his chest, and Munakata's smile only seemed to widen when he saw the modification Fushimi had made to his uniform.

Opaque blue gloves, that covered every visible part of his arm.

Fushimi stared back at him, waiting for Munakata to say something. Munakata's gaze didn't waver and he simply began the ceremony without any comment at all.

It was not much later, after Fushimi had completed his mission and apprehended the Minato twins, that he walked through the halls of Scepter 4 and heard the whispers that followed after him.

_“Did you hear? Fushimi from Intelligence doesn't have a soulmate mark.”_

The burn at his wrist ached, and Fushimi laughed.

**–**

He still dreamed about them sometimes, the flames on Misaki's arms.

He had begun to get used to it, being in Scepter 4 surrounded by arms clothed in blue that gave up nothing of what lay underneath. For Fushimi, with his perpetual long sleeves, sweaters and gloves and everything that he'd done to keep his own tattoo concealed from prying eyes, the idea that it might be someday _natural_ to keep his arms hidden felt like foreign territory.

Perhaps not quite 'natural,' though – he realized that too, slowly. Glimpses and glances along sleeves fallen back, on days off and plain clothes wandering around the dorms and he quickly found himself noting each and every one and the way that even the marks in this place were nothing like his own.

All of them blue, the same as Homra's constant red, and Fushimi felt his lip curl as he thought about Misaki again.

He'd seen Munakata's tattoo several times already: an entire universe on either arm, deep blue, a scattering of stars, and every time Fushimi looked at that mark it was as though he was staring into a galaxy that could swallow him whole. It was more than just ink that colored Munakata Reisi's arms, just as real as that bonfire that marked Suoh Mikoto.

_(And he'd heard the rumors, of course, about how that galaxy at the right angle would dip and curl neatly into a red bonfire and make a match. He asked Munakata about it once, how it felt having a tattoo which matched that of a person who stood on a side opposite his own, and Munakata had only responded that there was more to the world than the pattern made by the linking of arms.)_

But even as he spent his days with arms covered, eyes transfixed by blue stars, Fushimi still dreamed of dancing flames. Still found himself looking beneath the bed each morning for that figure he was so used to, whose pajamas all had no sleeves, and the once-comforting sight of red flames marking a tanned arm.

The first time they saw each other after his defection was like a clean breath after choking on smoke. He spotted Misaki from across the street, flames shining bright in sunshine and Fushimi's burns started to itch even as his fingers twitched with the desire to hold a knife. He moved without even realizing it, ignoring the scolding yell from behind him.

“Member Fushimi! Orders are to remain here!”

Fushimi clicked his tongue, smile creeping its way across his face so wide it felt _painful_ but he didn't stop moving. He didn't have to listen to that bastard behind him anyway. On paper their ranks may have been different but Fushimi had a measure of this place now, and he knew where he stood. The only one he answered to was Munakata, and possibly Lieutenant Awashima. For all the rest, his own judgment took precedence over anything like _orders._

Of course, Munakata would likely look poorly on him for starting a fight with Homra, but it wasn't like Fushimi cared much about _that_ either.

“--those stupid blue bastards taking up the whole road.” Misaki's voice floated to Fushimi's ears as he moved closer. Misaki didn't even seem to have noticed Fushimi's approach, his arms crossed and face irritated as he muttered complaints to Kamamoto beside him.

“Some of us have jobs to do, _Misaki.”_ Fushimi savored the word, let it swirl around on his tongue as he stepped into view. Misaki's face went white, then red, and another thrill ran down Fushimi's spine.

“ _Saruhiko.”_ There was so much anger there, so much _betrayal_ and it was intoxicating. Misaki's eyes burned as much as his arm and Fushimi wanted to immerse himself in them, to let himself be consumed by everything that was Misaki's pure red soul. 

Fushimi drew a knife and laughed, _laughed,_ as he ran forward to meet that anger head on.

Some hours later he sat in Scepter 4's infirmary, eyes dull, leaning his head on one arm as Munakata tended to the bruises on his face.

“I believe your orders were not to engage Homra, Fushimi-kun.” Munakata's voice was mild, barely a rebuke so much as a simple statement of facts, and Fushimi shrugged.

“It's fine, isn't it? The mission was completed either way.” Not that he'd been a part of that but then, it had been a pointless mission anyway. He'd been sitting in the vans for nearly an hour before Misaki arrived and besides, the commotion the two of them had caused had distracted the Strain Scepter 4 was tracking for long enough that it had been an easy capture.

“Indeed. But sometimes there is more to a mission than results.” There was a hint of a sigh in Munakata's voice as he wiped the rest of the blood from Fushimi's temple. Munakata's eyes scanned downward, lingering on the blood stains seeping through Fushimi's gloves, but he made no movement to deal with the wounds beneath. “Due to your actions I fielded a somewhat...terse call from Kusanagi Izumo earlier. He seemed to be rather displeased with my allowing such a thing to continue.”

“As if Kusanagi-san's opinion bothers you,” Fushimi said, rolling his eyes.

“Even so. I informed him, however, that what actions you choose to take are yours and yours alone.”

“So blaming it on the traitor being troublesome?” Fushimi smirked. “How unlike you, Captain.”

“Perhaps.” Munakata seemed politely amused by the reply. “It seemed prudent in the situation, particularly should such a thing happen again. As I imagine it might.” He gave Fushimi a knowing look and Fushimi glanced away, clicking his tongue in irritation.

“...Fushimi-kun.” Munakata's voice made him turn. “Do you know why our soulmate marks are on our arms?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Simply a question. Indulge me, if you will.”

“Does there have to be a reason?” Fushimi shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the line of conversation. 

“I believe that the reason, perhaps, lies in the possibilities.” Munakata continued as if Fushimi hadn't spoken at all. “There are any manner of ways that two arms may fit together, after all. What seems a match from one perspective may be nothing at all from another. In a way, it is fascinating how deeply such a subjective practice has become ingrained in society.”

“Weren't you the one who said there was 'more to the world than the linking of arms,' Captain?” Fushimi said coldly.

“I did indeed. I would rather say that it is not the linking of arms and the pattern which forms that matters at all, but the perspective of those who look upon it.”

“Does this have a point?” Fushimi muttered.

“Please don't mind me, Fushimi-kun. Consider it simple conjecture, nothing more.” He handed Fushimi the first aid kit. “I must return to my office. Please treat the remainder of your wounds and get some proper sleep.”

Munakata stood, taking his leave with a nod of his head. Fushimi didn't even watch him go, looking down fixedly at his bloodstained gloves and thinking about it again, those flames hypnotic on Misaki's skin.

More to the world than the linking of arms and the matching of marks on skin, and still somehow it seemed like everything revolved around that single place where a pattern might make a match. Might, but didn't.

_(That night, and many nights thereafter, he dreamed of flames.)_

–

The day he was called into Munakata's office for a promotion there was a funeral being held at Scepter 4.

It was the first one since Munakata had become King, or so he was told. One 'Kusuhara Takeru,' a name only vaguely familiar to Fushimi from rumors and a single night's unexpected meeting. One of the swordsman troops, part of the Special Forces squad to which Fushimi himself was now being assigned. A person who had died saving the Blue King's life, apparently, and Fushimi couldn't help but wonder if that action had _really_ meant anything at all. Munakata was a King, after all. It would take more than a bullet to kill a King.

It would take a person like Zenjou Gouki, who stormed into Munakata's office while he and Fushimi were speaking. Fushimi wasn't particularly worried when the man they called 'the Demon' slammed Munakata against a wall – Munakata didn't seem to be bothered by it and so it was none of Fushimi's business and not his job to intervene. But his eyes had been drawn to Zenjou's single arm, and Fushimi's fingers clenched unconsciously over his own sleeve.

Zenjou Gouki had lost an arm killing the previous Blue King, Habari Jin, before Habari's Sword of Damocles could fall. Fushimi had read the report with some mild interest – Suoh Mikoto's already crumbling Sword still in his mind, and there was no reason not to know everything he could so that he would be prepared for any eventuality – but he hadn't thought about that lost arm until the moment Zenjou walked into Munakata's office.

It was impossible to tell with the long sleeves of the uniform but Fushimi had heard the _other_ rumor and he didn't doubt that it was true. The lost arm had been the one with the tattoo on it, a tattoo that may or may not have fit well against whatever mark had covered Habari Jin's arms. Whether it could match anyone else, whether there was any other pattern that would fit, that mattered nothing at all now. Zenjou Gouki had no soulmate tattoo, not anymore.

As Fushimi walked back to his own room he passed a group of Scepter 4 members clustered together. In the center was a person Fushimi recognized from the profiles Munakata had given him, Hidaka Akira. A person who had been friends with the deceased Kusuhara, from what Fushimi understood, and who may have even been a match. There were tears streaming down Hidaka's cheeks and he held one arm up to cover his face while the rest of his companions placed comforting hands on his shoulders. Fushimi's lip curled and he clicked his tongue, continuing back to his room.

It was hard to sleep somehow and he tossed and turned, thinking of Kusuhara's bare arm _(Niki, cold on the table, skin whitening from black to gray),_ Hidaka's tattoo that might never match anyone so perfectly ever again, and Zenjou who no longer had to think of what possibilities his tattoo could hold.

He wondered what it would feel like, cutting it off. Fushimi stared off into the shadows, scratching mindlessly at the burn scar on his wrist, and tried to sleep.

–

“I bet it's really cool-looking. It's okay to let us see it, Fushimi-san, no one will get mad.”

Fushimi grimaced and covered his forehead with his arm – the one without the tattoo, that pale white arm that was a relief when he looked at it – and wished that Hidaka would go away. Wished that they would all just go away and leave him alone, but of course the universe never gave in to _his_ wishes.

He'd been doing well in the summer heat, even with his long sleeves and blue gloves, even without an inch of skin on his arms left bare. There was air conditioning in Scepter 4's vans, in the library and the dining hall and he kept himself close to those places whenever the predictable dizziness hit. He'd almost expected to get through a summer for once _without_ fainting, until some moron (Hidaka or Doumyoji, he just knew it) had suggested they all go to the beach and of course Munakata had taken it a step further and decided they all needed to learn how to survive on a deserted island, as if Munakata expected they could all be marooned any time now. It was hot and uncomfortable and there was sand getting in his clothes, he just knew he was getting a sunburn and his glasses were getting fogged up by the ocean air.

“Is he feeling any better?” Fushimi cracked an eye open. Hidaka was still leaning over him, doing his best to watch over Fushimi while also letting him have the majority of the shade from the umbrella. Akiyama had come to check on them, parka wrapped around his waist and a blue tattoo like tiny snowflakes dotted around his upper arm. Hidaka's arms were bare too, bright blue sparkles and Fushimi idly wondered what kind of pattern had marked Kusuhara Takeru's arms.

In the distance he could hear Munakata's steady voice giving orders as everyone else moved around in the hot sun, gathering sand and packing it together. Kamo was off to the side on his own carefully taking care of the Lieutenant's marlin and the few paltry shellfish gathered by Hidaka and Enomoto, his parka on but the sleeves rolled up, thick cobalt blue curves like swimming fish that stretched down to the wrist visible on his right arm.

The others were making a sand castle, apparently. Possibly a sand high rise with ready-to-rent office space, considering the way Munakata had started laying out the blueprints in mid-air.

It was stupid, either way, and Fushimi certainly hadn't asked for it. He'd been forced to help though, directing the others where to bring their piles of wet sand, until he'd been hit by a sudden dizzy spell. He'd woken up to find himself laid out on a towel under an umbrella off to the side of the rest of the group, a wet cloth on his forehead and Gotou offering him a drink with hands held so close Fushimi could almost make out the small blue cat-whisker patterns on Gotou's right wrist.

They had rolled up the right sleeve of Fushimi's parka but left the other alone. Fushimi suspected Munakata may have had something to do with that but no one had said anything to him about the reasoning and he didn't ask. Hidaka had been bothering him about the left sleeve for the last ten minutes though, saying that he would probably feel better if he took his parka off entirely.

At the very least he wasn't allowed to get up until his temperature went down, or so Awashima had helpfully informed him when he attempted to move. Her hands had been gentle as they touched his forehead but her words were as sharp as always, that he was clearly suffering from sunstroke and the last thing they needed was for him to end up in the hospital due to overdoing himself. The delicate pattern of azure flower petals that covered her wrists matched the blue in her bikini and made his eyes hurt.

This sort of thing always seemed to happen to him, a natural consequence of long sleeves and a constitution more suited to sitting behind a desk than running around outdoors. Even so it was annoying, the way they all stared at his covered arm like it was some kind of sideshow.

_(“It's really pretty, Fushimi,”_ _Totsuka had said once, smiling at him – such easy words from someone who didn't seem to care about that galaxy on Munakata's arms as long as he had his own butterflies spinning off from Mikoto's bonfire, that half-finished painting between them, and Fushimi thought that of all of Homra maybe he hated Totsuka the most.)_

“I'll take over watching him.” Akiyama sat down next to Fushimi as Hidaka moved to return to the rest of the group. They'd all been taking turns watching him and that was almost the most irritating part of it. An entire parade of idiots, staring at his arm and offering wild theories on what might be hidden beneath his sleeve: _“I bet it looks like an explosion, like whoosh and then bam!”_ Idiot Doumyoji, whose own tattoo was like blue fireworks along his elbow. _“I don't know about that...maybe something simple, like ribbons? Or knives.”_ Enomoto, sounding hesitant and unsure, wide blue circles ringed together around his wrist. Everyone with something to say and no one could ever leave him be.

And even so, not a single one of them had suggested the arm beneath that sleeve was blank. Not to his face, anyway, and Fushimi grimaced again.

“You should have something to drink, Fushimi-san.” Akiyama held out a bottle of water to him and Fushimi took it lethargically, limbs feeling almost too heavy to move. “Are you sure you're not feeling any worse? I'm sure Captain would let us go back to headquarters if you need to.”

“I'm fine,” Fushimi mumbled. His head hurt though, and the sun was burning into his eyes. Akiyama seemed to have noticed the second one, at least, because he adjusted the umbrella just a bit in order to block the worst of the sunlight. Fushimi took a slow drink of the water, and with his glasses off he couldn't tell if Akiyama was looking at his arms or not. Akiyama and his snowflakes, which so obviously matched Benzai's deep blue waves, and who hadn't so much as said a word about what might be there marked on Fushimi's arm.

“Are you hungry? The lieutenant's marlin isn't done yet but I think we have some energy bars packed.”

“Not really.” Fushimi shifted, eyes closing again. He still felt too hot and everything looked hazy. There was a long silence and then Fushimi couldn't help but speak. “Aren't you going to say something too?”

“Fushimi-san?” Genuine confusion, and Fushimi raised his covered arm.

“About... _this.”_

“Oh.” Akiyama placed a hand on his forehead, checking his temperature again. “I thought I shouldn't. It's rude to talk about someone else's mark.”

“Rude,” Fushimi snorted, but his thoughts wouldn't leave him alone. “And what would you say if I told you there was nothing there? That I haven't got one at all?”

Akiyama paused and Fushimi could see him considering his answer before he spoke again.

“I wouldn't believe you,” Akiyama said at last. “There are plenty of things that I haven't seen in the world, but that doesn't meant they don't exist. If you don't want to show people, it's fine. No one should spread rumors or think less of you for it.”

“..It's a mess,” Fushimi murmured, voice slurring a little. “The thing I'm hiding.” 

“I'm sure it's different,” Akiyama replied easily. “But isn't it supposed to be? Everyone's soul is different, after all.”

_Different._ Fushimi could have laughed, if he didn't feel so sick.

–

Mikoto's and Totsuka's arms matched now, blank and empty.

Fushimi sat at his computer, wide awake long after everyone else had returned to the dorms. Awashima had given them the rest of the evening off – it had been a long day, after all, and paperwork could wait. Which was stupid, as far as Fushimi was concerned, because it wasn't like going to get a good night's sleep would get the paperwork done any faster and he had far too many things to do to waste time on resting.

Fushimi's fingers trailed along his left arm, unconsciously tracing the unseen patterns beneath the glove right where he knew the red would turn into blue. He'd seen Misaki there too, at the bridge, arm covered in flames raised into the air again and again. A hundred different patterns of red, mixing together as all of Homra chanted and mourned.

And Fushimi above and away from them all, hands at his sides with red, blue and green stifled beneath sleeves and thick blue gloves. 

Abruptly he shut the computer, feeling suddenly sick and sore. Fushimi rose on stiff legs and dragged himself back to his dorm. He climbed up to the top bunk as if moving through muddy water, movements slow and sluggish.

Misaki on the bridge, those flames that still haunted Fushimi's dreams dancing as he raised his fist to the sky. Small red lights echoing everywhere with the afterimage of Mikoto's death, glowing ashes like fireflies in the air.

Fushimi pulled off his gloves, looked down at his arm and those three dark marks along the wrist where he'd burned his skin. There was still a small impression of it there, the red leaf pattern that had dipped into Mikoto's red for a single fleeting moment.

Fushimi drew a knife and cut a line straight through it, and went to bed bleeding.

–

“Ah, Fushimi-kun. I believe Awashima-kun gave you the night off, did she not?” Fushimi didn't even look up at the sound of Munakata's voice. Munakata still being awake was no surprise, after all, he often stayed in the office even later than Fushimi.

It had been two months now, since that night at the bridge. Two months of clean up and overtime and working late nights, tying up all the loose ends the Red King had left behind.

Fushimi had worked more of those late nights than most, awake long after everyone else had gone to bed. Everyone but Munakata, who stayed in his office well into the night and gave thin smiles and bland replies when asked about it.

_“A King doesn't need sleep,”_ and it was such a load of bullshit that it made Fushimi want to puke.

“ _Someone_ has to make sure work gets done,” Fushimi said coldly and Munakata only smiled. 

“Even so, I doubt anyone would begrudge you a night off.” Munakata's hand touched lightly against the blue of Fushimi's gloves and Fushimi had to make a conscious effort to keep from flinching away.

“I could say the same for you.” Fushimi's eyes darted between his computer screen and Munakata's hand. Munakata's sleeve was pushed up just enough that he could make out pieces of that blue galaxy that blanketed Munakata's skin and suddenly Fushimi was reminded of it again, those rumors he'd heard whispered in corners and quiet spaces. He didn't know if it was his own fatigue or just a desire to know the answer that made him speak again. “You matched him, right? Suoh Mikoto.”

It was hard to tell, in the low light with his eyes sore from staring at the computer screen, but Fushimi thought Munakata's eyes might have darkened for just a moment before he replied. Fushimi couldn't help but take a sick sort of satisfaction in that half second of hesitation.

“There was _a_ match, yes. We were both aware of it.”

“Totsuka Tatara matched him too.” Fushimi didn't turn his head from the screen, fingers tapping  unconsciously on the keyboard, and he laughed bitterly. “They match now, too. How does that feel, Captain? Knowing that the only match for you is the dead white arm of a corpse?”

_(Fushimi Niki's arm, black to gray to white, never able to match anyone again.)_

“Is there such a thing as only one match, Fushimi-kun?” Munakata sounded more amused than offended, and Fushimi grit his teeth. “Perhaps Suoh Mikoto's tattoo and mine were compatible in the 'correct' way. Perhaps there is more than one way to be correct. As I recall, you and I were nearly a match as well, were we not?”

Fushimi didn't reply, pulling his arm away from Munakata's hand and bringing it close against his body, an automatic reaction, and he couldn't help but hate himself for it.

“The world is a spider's web of patterns, after all.” Munakata continued as if he hadn't noticed. “Where one person sees a match another may see nothing at all. There is so little we still know, even now. A soulmate is, to all indications, a social construction that has led many to turn their lives upside down in order to find a single perfect match while ignoring the imperfect ones along the way. But there is, I think, a certain beauty in imperfections as well. And in the end, perhaps the _true_ match lies in finding a pattern where one does not exist.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Fushimi clicked his tongue.

“There is more than one way to see a pattern, Fushimi-kun,” Munakata said quietly. “As I said, there is so little we truly know about soulmate marks. They say it is best for those who have simple marks to find a true match, but I wonder if this is in fact so. Perhaps the real mark of a soulmate is the willingness to forgo the easy match and to search for the imperfection instead, to make your choice based on the willingness to pass up that which is obvious and reach for that which is _true_ instead.”

“Isn't that easy for you to say now?” Easy to say, for someone who had at least had _a_ match if not _the_ match.

“Perhaps,” Munakata agreed easily. “But tell me, Fushimi-kun: if you found a person to whom you wished to devote yourself, would you allow yourself to be deterred due to nothing more than a pattern of lines and colors that may or may not even truly mean anything?”

“It doesn't matter what I would do,” Fushimi said bitterly. His wrist itched and he longed to scratch at it but he didn't want to do it while Munakata was watching. “It takes two people, right? Even if it didn't matter to me, it would to someone.”

“Is that so?” Munakata's voice was vague and polite as always but there was an undercurrent to it that made Fushimi's hands clench. “Perhaps it means nothing to any one of us, perhaps it does. In any case, I long ago made the decision not to let such a thing dictate my life. The marks on my arms may help guide my direction, but it is my own choices which determine the path upon which I choose to walk. Please do remember that.” Munakata began to walk back to his office and then paused, glancing back. “And try to get some sleep, Fushimi-kun.”

Then he stepped back into his office and let the door close behind him. With a sigh Fushimi stood, stretching a little as he closed his computer.

He tore off his gloves and made his way back to his room, idly tracing the line of his tattoo with a knife.

–

It was raining, and Fushimi stared back at Misaki from across the street.

He'd noticed it, of course, the way Misaki had been ever since Mikoto's death. Listless, depressed, barely even acknowledging anything around him. Twice Fushimi had been on patrol near the bar and had seen Misaki there on his own, lying on the couch asleep, hands clutched close by his face and fingers arched into the cushions as though trying to hold onto the last vestiges of the person who had once spent so much time there. Misaki had been wearing a shirt with two full sleeves, tattooed arm more covered than Fushimi had seen it since the day Misaki had been scolded in middle school.

It made Fushimi sick.

_Of course_ Misaki would be depressed. Of course Misaki would grieve, to have lost someone so precious to him. Of course Misaki's eyes would look so sunken and hollow, now that someone who could have been his soulmate was gone.

_He never looked that way for me._ It was a swirl of disgust in the pit of his stomach and he knew that there had to be something wrong with him, to be so jealous of a dead man. But he was, so deeply he could feel it carved into his marrow – blank arms and closed eyes, and Fushimi felt a rush of pain in his chest.

_I want those eyes on me._ He couldn't have anything else, after all – no, Mikoto had taken all of that from him, the moment that bonfire on Mikoto's arms had so easily swallowed Misaki's flames. But it irritated him in the aftermath now, worried at the edges of his mind in the same way he worried endlessly at his own scars. Misaki was there, alone and grieving, and all Fushimi could feel was how much he wished to be the cause of that grief.

Which was why they could never be soulmates, he supposed, because a real soulmate wouldn't feel this way. A real soulmate would be worried for their other half, would feel the undeniable pull to comfort and soothe those wounds, not open up new ones. Fushimi clenched his fist, tried to turn away, but his feet moved him closer to Misaki regardless.

Misaki was sheltering from the rain under an overhanging roof, leaned up against a chain link fence. His posture was loose, totally open as if he didn't care about the possibility of enemies lurking nearby. Fushimi felt that rush of irritation again; with Mikoto gone Homra's people were targets, and right now there was no bigger target than Homra's fallen vanguard. Standing like that – eyes far away and sunken, dark circles beneath indicating a lack of sleep, with his usually tanned skin paler than normal and his body obviously a little bit thinner as though everything that had happened had washed parts of him away – anyone could take advantage of him. Fushimi was almost surprised it hadn't happened already, Homra's enemies working together to surround Misaki and defeat him now when he had no one to call for backup, no one to rely on.

_There goes your little 'family,' Misaki._ There was none of the satisfaction he had expected in the thoughts. Somehow it stuck in his throat instead like bile, his fingers twisting as he reached into his sleeve for the hilt of a knife. So much for Homra indeed. All that talk of family, of camaraderie – of _soulmates,_ and he remembered again that day in the bar and voices talking about how Mikoto had placed a piece of himself into each of their bodies along with Homra's mark. But now, when things were at the lowest point, how easily all that vanished into nothing but talk. Even more proof, he supposed, of the stupidity of assuming bonds were based on the marks of your arms.

His hand pressed against the burned Homra tattoo on his chest. So much for that piece of Mikoto's soul. He hadn't even needed to burn it in the end – it had burned itself out, red fireflies on a winter night.

And as for Misaki's tattoo...Fushimi's eyes slid downward to the arm held loosely at Misaki's side. Misaki's sleeve covered half his arm and part of the tattoo was hidden but Fushimi could still see the rest. The flames that had once captivated him so much had gone flat and lifeless, no longer that burning dancing fire he remembered but instead a red and orange mess, a child's drawing where it should have been an inferno.

Of everything, that was what made Fushimi finally pull the knife and throw.

“What the hell?” It passed only inches in front of Misaki's face, clanging against the chain link fence and falling to the wet pavement as Misaki jerked backwards. His face was damp, whether from rain or something else Fushimi didn't know, and he didn't care.

“ _Misaki.”_ Fushimi breathed the word, let it warm his throat. Misaki twitched noticeably, almost pulling back from him, but something had sparked in his eyes.

“Go away, Saruhiko.” He sounded tired, not angry, and Fushimi scowled. This wasn't what he'd come here for, dull eyes and duller flames.

“What's wrong?” Fushimi pulled another knife, enjoyed the way Misaki tensed as if expecting another attack. Fushimi kept his eyes trained on Misaki as he idly turned the knife around in his hands, as though it was a child's toy rather than a weapon. “You've gotten slow. If I hadn't missed on purpose you'd be dead now, you know.”

“I'm not dealing with this shit today,” Misaki said, a warning. His hands reached out, resting between the links of the fence and there was a strange softness to his expression, as though all that anger had been crashed away with the falling of Mikoto's Sword of Damocles. “I don't...just—just go away.”

“You're disappointing, Misaki.” Fushimi leaned one hand on his hip, the other still playing with the knife. “But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Look at how easily your little _family_ breaks, once Suoh Mikoto finally died like the dog he was.”

“Don't say shit about Mikoto-san.” There was nothing like the usual bite in his words and Fushimi felt his frown deepen.

Misaki, pale and small in front of him, and this wasn't what he wanted at all.

“Why shouldn't I?” Fushimi leaned forward, putting his height advantage to full use as he pressed closer. “How are you going to stop me, _Misaki_?”

“Dammit, Saruhiko!” Misaki's hands against his torso, not as hard a hit as normally it would've been and Fushimi was only pushed backward because he allowed himself to be. Misaki's eyes were blinking fast, water dripping down his face. “Can't you just...why do you have to be like this? Everything's gone to shit and—and I _needed_ you, and you weren't there because you're the stupid fucking traitor who left us behind. Are you happy now, Saruhiko? Homra's gone, and I'm the one who got left behind like an idiot, like the only one who's trying to make things work and you're here and you're _still_ doing this shit as if it doesn't matter to you at all.”

“Because it doesn't,” Fushimi said harshly. “I told you, didn't I? I was different from the start. So it doesn't matter to me. After all, I'm not the one who lost...a _soulmate.”_

The final word was half a mocking laugh and Fushimi's hands clenched around the knife as his arm darted forward, neatly slicing the right sleeve off Misaki's shirt.

“Is that why you're crying like a girl, Misaki?” Fushimi taunted. “Does it hurt? Who knows, maybe Suoh Mikoto was your last chance at a match. There are all kinds of patterns in the world but only one that really fits. Ah, wait, but didn't _everyone_ in Homra match with that man? Maybe that's why it hurts so much.” Fushimi's heart was pounding fast and he could feel the smile like a stain across his face, laughter building up even though part of him felt so lightheaded he might faint. “Because now that he's dead, you finally realized that you two weren't soulmates after all. Poor Misaki. How does it feel to be one of a thousand matches? To know that you never meant anything more to that man than--”

“Shut up!” Misaki's voice, hot and angry as he pushed Fushimi backward again, this time with enough force that Fushimi thought he might have bruises from it later. He didn't stop smiling, though. “What the fuck would you know about any of that, Saruhiko?” Eyes still blinking rapidly, rain and tears and white hot anger that made Fushimi want to drown in it. “What would a guy who doesn't even have a soulmate know about that anyway?”

Silence.

Fushimi's entire body felt strange – the truth he'd so longed to hear spoken by Misaki's voice, acknowledgment at last of the thing Fushimi had always known, and yet part of him felt sick, so sick at hearing those words from Misaki's mouth. Misaki himself had gone even paler, looking as though he'd been slapped.

“Saruhiko...” Misaki swallowed hard, voice broken in half. “Saruhiko, I'm sorry--”

“It's fine.” The words came easily, no pain at all from a wound that had been bleeding out for years now. “It's about time you figured it out, Misaki. I don't have a soulmate. And I don't care.”

He turned abruptly on his heel, ignoring the sound of Misaki's voice calling after him. One hand twitched towards his left arm and Fushimi felt a sudden rush of desire to go back to the dorms, to tear off the gloves and lay that soul bare again, to slice it apart until it bled.

He didn't need a soulmate. Misaki's words hadn't hurt at all, not after all this time.

But when Misaki had said them for just a moment those flames on his arm had begun to dance again, and so either way his own pain didn't matter at all. 

–

His PDA rang and Fushimi clicked his tongue, irritated. Things had been even more hectic than normal and he'd been working nonstop ever since that rainy night at Mihashira. Munakata had ordered him to collect information on the people who had attacked the tower and Fushimi had spent the last few hours chasing dead end leads, feeling tired and stretched thin like too little canvas over a wooden frame.

His PDA rang again, insistently, and Fushimi finally glanced down to look at the screen. His caller ID hadn't picked up a name but Fushimi didn't need one, not for that number – even without the mind that never forgot anything he would still have known that number anywhere.

What that person could want, that was the question. To call _him,_ now...Fushimi shifted. They hadn't spoken since that day in the rain and Fushimi wondered if the idiot had called only to do something stupid like apologize, apologize for words that had never been anything but true. If that was the case he'd find himself disappointed, that was certain. 

Even so, Fushimi couldn't stop himself from smirking as he answered the call.

“Is this Saruhiko?” 

_Misaki._

“At least identify yourself. You're not on my caller ID list. Do I know you?” He let the words hang in the air, mocking, waiting for an answer. It wasn't quite as satisfying, not being able to see those burning eyes, burning flames, but it would have to do.

“You stupid monkey, are you trying to start a fight?”

Misaki didn't sound apologetic at all and Fushimi's smile widened _._ He couldn't deny the small thrill that ran up his spine, the thing almost like _hope_ – they wouldn't match, they would never match, but if he could continue to watch those flames dance until they swallowed him whole it would be enough.

“What if I was?” Fushimi leaned back against the staircase, holding his PDA in his left hand while his right began to creep beneath the left glove, brushing against the scars and marks on his arm. “You're not protected by a Sanctum anymore, Misaki. Is there anything a person like you can even do, now? Or are you going to cry at me some more, like the last time we talked?”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other line and Fushimi grimaced. He could almost _feel_ Misaki's sudden rush of guilt, could imagine the stricken look on that face and it made him sick. 

Misaki _was_ still feeling guilty, then, and it was ridiculous. Those words hadn't pained Fushimi at all – still didn't, didn't keep him awake tossing and turning in his bed as his nails dug into the spots on his left arm where red turned to blue turned to green.

“Saruhiko...what I said...”

“Save it.” Fushimi's voice was sharp and cold. “If you only called to whimper at me like a child then you may as well hang up now, Misaki. I haven't got time for your pointless guilt.”

“It's not...!” Another pause, a steadying breath on the other end. “Listen, Saruhiko. Anna's been kidnapped. According to Kamamoto, a guy from the Green clan named Mishakuji is behind it.”

_Mishakuji...?_ He'd run across the name somewhere before in the files and Fushimi's mind was already working without him even being consciously aware of it. The Green clan had kidnapped Anna. Jungle had made a move at last.

( _“What it does match, though...”_ _He still remembered it, those words from that time, huddled in front of a glowing screen as a replica of his own tattoo rotated in front of him. An answer he never had been given, and Fushimi clicked his tongue quietly in annoyance. He hadn't been able to cut that thread yet, and he dug one fingernail into the skin of his arm beneath the glove, let the blood trickle down.)_

“But we don't know where they took her. Do you guys have any information? If you know anything...please. Tell me.”

“Tch. I'm not your informant, Misaki, and I'm not your friend. Go ask one of your fellow idiots to do your dirty work for you.” That sea of red flames, already washed away with the loss of Mikoto, but he might as well say it. It wasn't like he and Misaki had anything to tie them together now, not really, and his arm itched.

“Saruhiko...” Misaki's voice was almost wavering as he spoke and it made Fushimi's chest hurt, breath boiling in his lungs. “Totsuka-san, Mikoto-san...even Kusanagi-san...they're all gone. I can't think of anyone else to turn to. You're the only one left...!”

_The only one left._ An arm only reached out because there were no more matches remaining.

“...'The only one left,' huh?” It was a sudden hot rush of anger that he couldn't stop, and Fushimi grit his teeth. “”Is that it, Misaki? All your precious friends...your precious _soulmates..._ abandoned you, so you have no choice but to come crawling to the traitor? How pathetic.”

He heard Misaki sputter but didn't give him time to reply, turning the PDA off abruptly as he sagged against the staircase clutching at his arm.

Of course this was how it should be, really. That Misaki would only turn to him when there was no one else left, nothing but blank arms and absent friends, when a mismatch was better than nothing at all. Fushimi leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling.

Misaki's words again, in the back of his mind: “ _What would a guy who doesn't even have a soulmate know about that anyway?”_

A real soulmate wouldn't have needed to be asked, wouldn't have needed to be _begged_ for something as simple as a little assistance. But there had been an undeniable thrill deep in his bones, the moment he'd seen that number on his PDA. And beyond that...

It wasn't a kindness, helping Misaki. It wasn't out of some sense of camaraderie, wasn't because he felt duty bound by that mark on his arm. It was only...

Only that he happened to be currently researching the matter, and Misaki had given him needed information. Already the words were compartmentalized easily in his mind, reasons upon reasons that he could accept, and Fushimi stood and made his way back up the steps.

Just this once, then, and he let his arm drop to his side.

\--

“Saruhiko...” Misaki stood in front of him, unsure and slightly red in the face. Fushimi stared back at him stiffly, sword still held at attention the same way it had been when Munakata had ordered them to draw weapons and salute the new Red King. “Um..th—thanks...for helping me find Anna.”

Fushimi's lip curled. He hadn't intended to 'help' anyone, least of all Misaki, and he certainly hadn't done it out of any expectation of gratitude. Misaki's flames were shining again and what Fushimi wanted was a burn, a scar.

“Also...” Misaki coughed, awkward in an almost friendly way that made Fushimi's hands clench around the hilt of his sword. He hadn't done what he'd done just for this weak little thing, this pattern that still wouldn't fit, that would break easily the moment he made a single move.

“Saruhiko. What I said before, about you not having a soulmate and all. I'm really s--”

Fushimi clicked his tongue and turned away, not bothering to hear the rest of the apology and he heard Misaki squawk indignantly behind him.

_Apologizing for it? Don't make me sick._ Fushimi's eyes strayed down to the glove that covered all the visible skin on his left arm. There was no point in Misaki apologizing for something that had been true, after all. He didn't have a soulmate. He'd never had a soulmate.

And because Fushimi didn't have one, there had never been any way that Misaki could possibly have been his.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV. Green**

The sky was a deep dark blue and a steady snow fell as a single figure wandered through the empty park illuminated only by lampposts and starlight.

Fushimi blew on his hands to warm them, fingers stiff and numb. It wasn't enough and his whole body seemed to shudder with cold, frozen to the bone despite his coat.

His green coat.

He'd left the blue one back on his bed at the Scepter 4 dorms. He'd intended to take it off when he'd declared that he was leaving, there where everyone could see, but his gloves only covered so far up his arms and there were things he still held secret even now.

_“You're used to being a traitor anyway.”_

It was all part of the plan, of course. They'd intended to fight, he'd intended to walk away. But the bite of those words had been more than he'd expected, more than what they'd rehearsed. He supposed Munakata had just wanted to make things look as if Fushimi meant it. Or perhaps it was _Munakata_ who had meant it, who hadn't wanted to insult Hisui Nagare's intelligence with a fake show. The words had stung as much as if they were real, in any case, no matter how much Fushimi told himself that they had all been lies.

Except, really, when he thought about it, those words hadn't been lies at all. That was why he'd been chosen for this – only a traitor could be believed if he betrayed again. If Munakata hadn't seen Fushimi in that light from the start he never would have asked Fushimi to do such a thing. Fushimi's hand crept up the left sleeve of his coat, touched the cold skin beneath.

Maybe it was inevitable, then. It was his soul marked there on his arms, after all, and hadn't that been three colors from the very start? Perhaps that had always been the reason, no soulmate but betrayal, and Fushimi laughed softly as green light from the PDA reflected in his eyes.

_(And in the back of his mind, that last parting with Misaki: “come chase after me,” as though he was someone worth following. Misaki had been the first one to say that word after all, 'traitor,' and Fushimi had only lived up to that curse. A match that could never be, and no need to ask for a savior when he was not worth being saved.)_

“So I'll be a traitor then.”

It wasn't like he had anything to lose anyway, and Fushimi kept walking.

–

“Why the hell should we trust someone who won't even show his soulmate mark?”

“Now, now, Sukuna – it's rude to ask to see someone's tattoo if they haven't offered to show you first. Well, though I guess kids these days don't hold to those old conventions much anymore, do they?”

Fushimi didn't even look up, staring in thinly veiled dislike at the sushi plate in the center of the table. There wasn't much there worth eating and his stomach did a small flip; it had been weeks since he'd had anything close to a proper meal. There simply hadn't been time for it, missions to complete and points to earn. All of that just for this moment, eating sushi in the Green clan's 'secret' hideout.

Fushimi swallowed the bitter smile threatening to split his face. It hadn't exactly been what he'd been expecting – the underground tunnels made sense, the Green King's hideout a place that couldn't be found by normal methods. The stupid little family stage in the center of it all, though, that had been entirely different from his imaginings. 

That Hisui Nagare was sitting there opposite him watching him with a serene expression while Fushimi picked at the sushi was another thing he hadn't anticipated. He'd assumed that jungle's King would have been far more wary about allowing Scepter 4's third in command into his midst but Hisui seemed perfectly willing to accept him with open arms – as per the rules of the game, apparently, and Fushimi couldn't help but think that Hisui Nagare was either very powerful or very stupid. 

“How do we know he's even one of us?” Sukuna crossed his arms and this time Fushimi did allow a little of his distaste to seep into his expression. The kid wore his jacket with only one sleeve, showing off the stupid green half-moon marks on his shoulder as if they were some kind of badge of pride. “I don't trust guys who hide their soulmate tattoos like that.”

“Isn't it only a matter of preference?” Mishakuji Yukari said calmly, taking a piece of sushi between his chopsticks with practiced elegance. He too wore only a single full sleeve, the other cut off at the elbow, and the purple petal-shaped drops that lined his lower arm extended up his wrist and onto the back of his hand like a lace glove. The part on his hand was no doubt artificial – no real soulmate mark stretched so far – and Fushimi idly wondered where the man had managed to find a tattoo artist willing to touch the arm where a soulmate mark was located. That was illegal, of course, though he supposed that a person like Yukari no doubt cared more for aesthetics than legality. “Sukuna. This line of questioning is crude of you.”

It was only a mild rebuke but Sukuna puffed up at it nonetheless and Fushimi rolled his eyes.

“It's stupid logic, isn't it?” Fushimi had decided to keep quiet while he was here but the words came out regardless. Sukuna's head immediately whipped around to glare at him. “Are you some elementary school kid, showing off your tattoo to find out what group you'll be in for the rest of the year?”

“Shut up! Nagare, we don't need this guy, right? He's one of those Blues! That means he has to match the Blue King, and anyone who'd betray their soulmate is--”

Fushimi's sudden harsh laughter drowned out whatever else Sukuna might have said.

“What makes you think I even have a soulmate at all?” Fushimi's throat felt hot. “You want to know why I won't show you my arm? Because it's blank. There's nothing there but white skin.”

Sukuna's eyes widened, disbelief with just a touch of horror, but before he could say anything in reply Hisui intervened.

“Saruhiko. Sukuna's words are unkind, but you need not respond with a lie.” Hisui's single visible eye seemed to glow as he stared at Fushimi. “I have seen that mark for myself. We have nothing to fear from Saruhiko.”

“Eh?” Sukuna looked at Hisui in open confusion and Fushimi's fingers twitched slightly. 

“I will show you.” There was something almost anticipating in Hisui's gaze as he raised a hand and beckoned Fushimi to stand.

Hisui's arms were bare as well, his black sleeves tattered. On each of those arms Fushimi could see the faintest pattern of green.

_(Soulmate tattoos disappeared at death, after all.)_

“Saruhiko. Now that you have become a J-ranker, I shall give you power personally through the installation. Considering you are a two color user, perhaps you will not find the occasion anything special.” There was something in Hisui's measured gaze that made Fushimi's breath catch but he didn't dare provoke further suspicion by hesitating. He was a traitor. As long as he clung to that truth, he would be fine.

Electricity surrounded the Green King's body, unfurling and entangling itself like the vines of a jungle plant. Fushimi kept his body still even as the vines enveloped him, wrapping themselves tight around his arms and legs, his neck, his torso, and Fushimi didn't even risk taking a breath as a shock of electricity ran through him.

It was only a moment later that he felt it, the third color rooting itself deep in his soul, and Fushimi relaxed. As he'd expected, he'd passed the installation without issue.

Then the tendrils around his arms removed themselves, taking his left sleeve along with them.

Fushimi's reaction was immediate and instinctual, cradling his arm close to his chest as if injured even as he pulled a knife from one sleeve and darted towards Hisui Nagare.

“Nagare!” It wasn't Sukuna's yell that stopped him, nor Yukari's slow and almost casual hand moving to the hilt of his sword. Instead it was the screen that appeared between Fushimi and Hisui, that pixellated recreation of his own tattoo that Fushimi remembered seeing all those years ago at his apartment the first time he'd dared to challenge the Green King.

“It is all right, Saruhiko.” Hisui's eyes darted briefly over Fushimi's shoulder. “Sukuna, Yukari. I simply thought it best to have no secrets between friends.” He looked back up at Fushimi, serene and calm. “Do you remember this, Saruhiko? It's been quite a long time since we two have spoken, particularly as the Blue King interrupted our last talk. But our first conversation has been on my mind ever since. I had hoped you would recall it as well.”

Fushimi nodded, not speaking. It would have been hard for him to forget, really – he still had the nightmares every now and again, of expressionless masks staring down while disembodied hands reached out from the dark to grab him.

“At the time I was able to create an imperfect simulation of your tattoo.” Hisui's eyes traveled to Fushimi's arm again, still held close to his chest. “There is no need to be ashamed of it here, Saruhiko. Despite Sukuna's words, all who are able to reach j-rank are welcome in jungle's inner circle. I put my trust in those who have shown me their loyalty. I hope to be able to do the same for you. In return, I offer you this.”

The tattoo on the screen began to rotate again, as it had that day in the apartment. And just as on that day another pattern appeared beside it, all in green, cubes and symbols almost like lines of code. The second pattern duplicated itself, one on each side of Fushimi's mark, and the three shapes twisted and turned as though Hisui was trying to put together a puzzle.

Hisui cocked his head slightly and the moving patterns finally slowed to a stop. A perfect match.

“H-hey, Nagare.” It was Iwafune's voice, surprised. “Isn't that...”

“Indeed.” Hisui looked up at Fushimi with an almost triumphant smile. “As you can see, Saruhiko, this is a splendid match. Far better than that tattoo matched with either Suoh Mikoto or Munakata Reisi.”

“W-wait, I don't get it!” Sukuna spoke up again. “Nagare--”

“How unexpected,” Yukari broke in, thoughtful. “It's quite beautiful, Nagare-chan.”

Fushimi looked between the two of them and then back to Hisui, his mind refusing to make the connection that he knew had to be right in front of him.

“It is difficult to see now,” Hisui said, inclining his head towards his arms. “But I have kept my own records of this, for research purposes. This mark in the center is your own, Saruhiko. And the one which matches it: the tattoo which once was mine.”

Fushimi's breath seemed to choke in his throat and he was dimly aware that the arm held against his chest was starting to shake.

“No way!” Sukuna yelled angrily. “Nagare, _this guy_ can't be your soulmate. He's one of the Blues!”

“He is one of us, now,” Hisui said serenely. He laid a hand on Fushimi's trembling arm, cold fingers tracing the burn on Fushimi's wrist and it felt like ants crawling all over him, like a length of rope tightening around his wrist and cutting off all circulation, leaving him numb. “Soon our dream will be realized, Saruhiko. When that time comes, please feel free to remain by my side and watch until the end. I expect you will be pleased by the outcome.”

He wheeled past Fushimi without another word, over to where Sukuna was still sputtering and shooting Fushimi looks of white hot hatred. Fushimi found his legs beginning to give out from under him and it took all his control to make it appear as though he had chosen to sit rather than fallen to his knees.

His body was still shuddering lightly, and out of the corner of his eye Fushimi could see Yukari watching him with a measuring stare. Fushimi braced his arms against the floor and swallowed down the laughter threatening to force its way out of his blocked throat.

Of course. _Of course._

_(Fushimi Niki's arm, black into gray into white. Hisui Nagare, with only the lightest tracks of a tattoo left on his pale dead skin, the green light pulsing in his chest the only thing separating him from bare white arms.)_

Of course it should be this way, that all his soulmates were corpses. 

–

The hour was late but Fushimi remained wide awake, staring up into the yawning darkness that made up the 'ceiling' of the Green clan's home. He shifted, trying to get comfortable despite the cold room and hard floor – the Gray King had suggested he sleep on the couch but Fushimi had wrapped himself in the dusty blankets he'd been given and settled on the floor instead.

Sukuna had been and gone, refusing to room with someone so 'suspicious.' The whole time the brat had been complaining he'd also been staring at Fushimi's still-bared tattoo, as if he couldn't believe that someone like Fushimi could ever be his precious ' _Nagare's'_ soulmate.

Fushimi bit back a laugh that felt painful as it tried to force its way out of his parched throat. What a joke.

Fushimi sighed irritably and tried to roll over, pulling the blanket over his left arm to cover the marks he could still feel, that mess of patterns and scars, his fingers sliding against the burn mark on his wrist. No matter how hard he tried to remind himself that it was pointless, that it didn't mean anything, he couldn't deny that something in him he had thought long dead had stirred when Hisui Nagare had spoken that word. _Soulmate._

The air felt stale in his throat and finally Fushimi pulled the blanket over his shoulders as he forced himself up on stiff legs. Off to one side of the stage he could see the slightest glow, the Dresden Slate humming quietly with its own power. Looking at it made Fushimi's eyes hurt, the three colors inside him churning uncomfortably, but even so he found himself moving towards it.

The light grew brighter the closer he came and Fushimi could hear the sound of his own footfalls slowing as he caught sight of a shadow stretching out in front of the Slate. Fushimi started slightly as he recognized the figure of Hisui Nagare in his wheelchair, dark shadows and white light both reflecting off the Green King's motionless form. His single visible eye was closed and Fushimi could barely even tell if he was breathing or not.

Or did the Green King breathe at all for that matter, this person kept alive only by the will of the artifact in front of him. Fushimi shifted, hands brushing against his hidden knives more out of a sudden need to remind himself the weapons were still there than anything else. He knew there was no point in attempting to take Hisui's head, not in this place, not with the Green King's once-restrained power all but unbound by the Slate in front of him.

Fushimi's eyes slid down to Hisui's arms again, ghostly white in the unnatural light cast by the Slate. Between the shadows Fushimi thought he could see it again, the traces of that green pattern Hisui had recreated in front of him hours earlier.

His _match,_ and Fushimi's fingers twitched.

“Saruhiko.” Hisui Nagare's eyes didn't open and his body remained motionless but even so Fushimi couldn't bring himself to be surprised that Hisui had known he was there. The Green King's posture didn't tighten up even a bit, as calm as if it had been Yukari or Sukuna standing behind him instead of the traitor who had never been able to choose a single clan, a single color, even in the depths of his soul.

“Do you always sleep out here?” Fushimi tried to sound bored, as though he himself had only chosen to go for a late-night walk.

“I often enjoy looking upon the Slate.” Hisui opened his eyes then, turned to look at Fushimi with that almost childlike stare that nonetheless made Fushimi's entire body tense up immediately. “Have you seen it before, Saruhiko?”

“At the Tower.” Fushimi shrugged. “All this trouble for a stupid piece of rock, huh?”

“You are not impressed?” Hisui's tone was perfectly neutral, curious but not in any way judgmental, as if he truly wished to hear Fushimi's thoughts.

“Not particularly.” His fingers were digging into his tattoo again, he could feel it, and he couldn't even remember having moved his hand. “For something that controls the destinies of so many people it doesn't seem like much to me.”

“Perhaps not.” Hisui's entire body seemed to be humming with the Slate's power as he turned back to gaze upon it. “But you are correct, Saruhiko, that the Dresden Slate has controlled many destinies. It is this control that jungle strives to break.” He extended a hand towards the Slate and for just a moment Fushimi thought the faded marks on Hisui's arm seemed to grow darker, a deep, deep green like the heart of a jungle – and then the moment passed, leaving only washed away marks on a dead man's skin. Fushimi bit his lip, swallowing hard. The air in the room seemed to have grown colder and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

“You will be at my side when the time comes.” Hisui's hands pressed unexpectedly over his and Fushimi couldn't stop the flinch this time. “You are my soulmate, after all.”

“Soulmate.” The word burned his tongue despite the chill in the air. “It's not any different, is it? The Slate, and those marks.”

“Indeed,” Hisui answered. “Soulmates too are a way of controlling one's destiny, a path which is set and cannot be deviated from.”

“Shouldn't you want to smash this too, then?” Fushimi muttered, fingers tracing the map of his left arm. “This 'destiny.'”

“Do you wish to smash it?” Hisui replied easily. “You will be given that power, in the new world we create.”

“Is that something you should be saying to your own soulmate?” Fushimi said, unable to keep the acid out of his tone. Dimly he knew he should hold his tongue, not do anything that could make him seem suspicious. Hisui didn't seem to mind his words at all, though, expression never wavering.

“Such is the nature of jungle,” Hisui said. “If you wish to destroy that mark on your arm which ties you down, please feel free to do so. Such an action would only show that you do indeed belong here at my side. If it is your will, and your choice – I will accept that possibility with open arms. That you and I are soulmates...this information I offered you in the belief that it would be appreciated, not in order to force you to remain here if your choices lay elsewhere.”

“Is that why you didn't tell me, the second time we met? Or did you just not have time?” Fushimi found himself turning to look back at the Slate even though the glow was making his eyes ache and his head pound. “You left me to the Blue King because you didn't want to deal with him and Mikoto-san both, right?”

“On the contrary,” Hisui said. “Had you expressed a desire to go with me then I would have fought both the Blue and the Red Kings until I had you at my side. I would have used my powers and killed them both, if necessary.” He turned his head, just enough that his bangs parted slightly and Fushimi could see both of the Green King's eyes alight with fathomless power. “I have been watching you ever since our first meeting. That my soulmate should be someone so uniquely suited for jungle, it was indeed pleasing. And you have matured in every way I had hoped, grown into a strong clansman with the ability to wield three auras. At our second meeting, I had hoped you would choose to join me. You chose different, as was your right, and had you stayed true to that choice I intended to respect it, that road your decision created. But you came here, and now another road is open to you.”

“And if my decision changes?” It was dangerous thing to ask, but it was only because he was speaking to Hisui and Hisui alone that he felt comfortable doing so. “Does your 'respect' go so far as to embrace your own soulmate's betrayal?”

“There is of course a consequence to every choice,” Hisui said simply. “I believe you already know the answer to your question. But that need not be something you worry about.” His hand reached out again, a chilled finger tracing the green curves and cuts of Fushimi's tattoo. “We are soulmates, Saruhiko. Whether you place importance on this or not is your decision, and only yours. If you do not wish to follow my path, you may forge your own. But there is meaning in this mark beyond that – like the Slate, many possibilities lie between the lines of that tattoo. You and I together, creating a new world, this is one possibility. It has always been a possibility, carved there on your skin. As such, I believe it deserves due consideration. A destiny that is written may indeed be broken, but that shatter may also wound the one who breaks it. However, should a bond so strong be _cherished..._ that too, has its place. I am eager to see it come to fruition, if that is the choice you decide to make.”

Hisui's hand removed itself then and Fushimi had to stop himself from shuddering, a jolt running through his entire body as though he'd been shocked by the Green power sleeping inside him. Hisui didn't even so much as turn to look back at him, disappearing into the shadows of the Green clan's base without another word. Fushimi stared after him, breathing hard, his own shadow carved in sharp focus on the floor. Fushimi touched the burn on his wrist.

A choice. He felt another laugh bubbling in his throat and let it come, let the laughter force its way out of his mouth so fast and hot he could barely breathe.

So foolish, that he'd even for a moment believed it, that he'd even for a moment allowed himself to think that perhaps he truly had been wrong and that he'd had a soulmate all this time after all.

It didn't matter, that rotating tattoo on a computer screen, not any more than those flames of Misaki's that would never dip and curl red into his blue and green.

It was a choice after all, and he'd chosen nothing too long ago to change his mind now.

–

Fushimi walked with his hands in his pockets, silent, eyes focused on Mishakuji Yukari's back in front of him.

They were returning to jungle headquarters after the completion of jungle's most recent mission: influencing the Prime Minister to force Munakata to step down as head of Scepter 4. Fushimi supposed he should feel guilty, having played a part in getting the person who was ostensibly still his commanding officer fired, but Munakata's words wouldn't stop echoing in his mind and his arm itched.

He'd been forced to leave his left arm bare, having not even so much as a change of clothes with him. Iwafune had smiled easily at him afterward, apologizing for Hisui's 'dramatics,' as he'd called it, and had offered to sew the sleeve back on like a parent covering for the actions of a rebellious child. Fushimi had declined with a click of his tongue. The damage had been done, after all, and hiding it now would only draw more questions that he didn't particularly want to answer. 

Which meant leaving the arm as it was, visible in all its mess of colors and patterns and scars. He'd seen the Prime Minister staring at it in something like confusion as Fushimi stood there behind Yukari, arms folded as they persuaded the Prime Minister of Munakata's failure to properly perform the duties of his position. The Prime Minister's own tattoo was hidden, of course – politicians never bared their marks while in office – and Fushimi wondered if the man had one of those dull 'easy' tattoos whose match was clear immediately, and if he'd never seen anyone with a mark as ridiculous as Fushimi's.

“Saruhiko-chan.” Yukari leaned back to look at him. “Are you tired?”

“I'm fine,” Fushimi said coolly. His arms stiffened slightly, left elbow aching a little from the way he'd been holding it ever since Hisui tore his sleeve, and his fingers closed again over one of the knives in his pocket. Yukari was always perfectly polite to Fushimi – friendly, almost, completely opposite from Sukuna's open hostility. But there was always an edge behind that smile that put Fushimi on alert, those marks on Yukari's lower arm not flower petals but drops of poison when seen up close.

Fushimi found his hand straying again towards his left arm, scratching at the burn on his wrist.

“You should take better care of your skin, Saruhiko-chan.” It took an effort not to jump as Yukari got close without Fushimi having even been aware that the other man had moved. Yukari was looking at Fushimi's arm with a disapproving expression, as if Fushimi was a child who'd just smeared crayon on the wall. “That is your precious soulmate mark, after all.”

“Precious.” Fushimi snorted. “How ridiculous.”

“Perhaps.” Yukari seemed unconcerned by his reaction, though his eyes were as sharp as ever. “I suppose Sukuna-chan would say that it is an unfitting attitude for Nagare-chan's soulmate, though.”

“I'm not his soulmate,” Fushimi said, more harshly than he'd expected. _I'm not anyone's._

“Ah, is that so?” Yukari smiled slightly. “Well, it's none of my business. Nagare-chan has no need for a soulmate as he is. His ambition goes beyond such things.”

“And what about you?” Fushimi couldn't help but ask, eyes traveling to that pattern of poison on Yukari's wrist. From what he'd seen of Hisui's tattoo it was obvious that while Sukuna may have been a partial match Yukari was nowhere near. “Aren't clansmen supposed to match their King?”

_(Homra's sea of red flames and Scepter 4's parade of blue, and Fushimi in three colors, three sides, all at once.)_

“Is that so?” Yukari's smile curved upward, as though thinking of a secret he didn't intend to share. “Well, perhaps. Such a beautiful mark, though, may match anything should one have the proper sense of aesthetics.” He held up his tattooed hand and arm, admiring them. “Should I be tied down, simply because my own beauty cannot be matched?”

“Tch.” Fushimi rolled his eyes. What else had he expected as an answer, anyway?

“And besides, Nagare-chan's dream intrigued me.” Yukari's gaze was as sharp as his sword. “Surely it must be to your taste as well, Saruhiko-chan. Nagare-chan dreams of a world where everyone is equally gifted, regardless of the marks on your arm. A world where your own strength and skill decides your fate. I imagine it must be tempting for those who do not believe in such things as soulmates.”

“And you don't either, then?” Fushimi said mildly, not looking at him.

“I don't believe I said any such thing,” Yukari replied. “I am aware that Nagare-chan and I may never be, let's say, a conventional match. But it was Nagare-chan himself who persuaded me to come with him, whose words made my blood burn. I simply decided that I wished to follow my own desires, rather than those of my arm.”

Fushimi didn't reply, fists clenching slightly. Yukari regarded him with interest before turning away and beginning to walk again, humming to himself. After a moment Fushimi followed him, eyes drawn against his will to the purple marks ringing Yukari's wrist.

He could feel it deep inside, at the root of his soul where those three colors pulsed and burned, the temptation of those words: ' _If you wish to destroy that mark on your arm which ties you down, please feel free to do so.' 'A world where everyone is equally gifted, regardless of the marks on your arm.'_ He'd tried to live in that kind of world from the very start – since that day on the roof of Himuka Middle School, that had been the only thing he'd wanted. A world where those marks that didn't fit meant nothing, a world where it didn't matter at all that the only person he'd ever wanted to be a match with would never have an arm that fit against his.

But there was the other echo in his head as well: that the world didn't change so easily, and it would take more than Hisui Nagare and the Dresden Slate to bring about such a thing. A pretty lie versus an ugly truth, and Fushimi's lip curled.

_What a shitty plan._

–

Deep in the heart of jungle's base, Fushimi sat bathed in green light. 

His hand clenched tightly around his PDA, eyes fixed on the computer screens in front of him, body tense despite the silence that surrounded him. Fushimi shifted, the glow from the screen making his eyes burn and he reached over with his free hand to brush his fingers against his left arm.

This would be his tomb, depending on what move he chose to make next. Fushimi felt the rueful smile hovering about his lips, painful as it crossed his face. His fingers moved slowly along the scarred edges of his tattoo, tracing the line where blue bled into green.

A choice, and shadows danced across his skin. The PDA in his hands gave a quiet beep, indicating the completion of the program he'd just run. He'd staked out this room days ago, the place where all of jungle's security and access programs were centralized, and he'd hacked into it easier than expected. One touch was all it took now, to open the door and free the way for anyone outside to enter jungle's inner sanctum.

One touch. One choice. A single color left to pick.

“Hello, Saruhiko.”

The voice wasn't particularly unexpected, and Fushimi didn't even flinch.

“You let me roam free through your entire hideout,” Fushimi said, not bothering to turn around. The shadows shifted as though alive and he could see the silhouette of a parrot reflected on the wall, looking like some kind of monstrous bird of prey in the dim light. “What did you expect me to do, really?”

“Indeed.” There was interest in that voice rather than condemnation, and Fushimi wondered how much of his actions even now were all within the parameters of Hisui Nagare's plan. “I'm impressed. You intend to invite the Blue King inside, do you not?”

“Why didn't you kill me the moment I walked in?” He'd been wondering it, all this time. “You had to know, right? That traitors will betray again.”

He couldn't help the laugh at the end of those words.

“There was no need to kill you then. There is no reason to now.” Fushimi finally turned at that, to look at the parrot cocking its head back and forth as Hisui Nagare's calm voice echoed from its mouth. “You and I have been connected from the very start, Saruhiko. Our first meeting, our second, our last...all of these were fated to be. You have always belonged at my side.”

“Is that so?” Fushimi said softly, eyes averted. His skin itched, the burn on his wrist aching the same way it had the day that he'd done it. In his mind he could see masked faces reaching for him again, and green lightning that tore away all he'd tried to hide. “Do you really think that matters to me?”

“As long as you don't open the gate, you will not be considered a traitor.” Hisui's voice was matter-of-fact and calm, almost hypnotic with the shadows creeping up along the walls like long dark fingers stretching out to grasp hold of him. “You understand, do you not? Until the moment that door opens you are still considered one of us, Saruhiko.”

“Then you'll forgive all this, is that right?” Fushimi snorted. “What a load of crap.”

“A J-ranker may walk around the base as he pleases,” Hisui said. “And duels between clansmen are not permitted. Should you leave things as they are, my protection will be enough to keep you safe.”

“And if I open the gate, you'll dispose of me here.” Fushimi laughed coldly. 

“There is no need for you to die a meaningless death,” Hisui said. “I would not have it be this way, Saruhiko.” The parrot's eyes shone green, and the shadows on the walls shifted again. “You have always wished for it, yes? A place where you truly _belong._ ”

Fushimi couldn't stop the slight flinch, couldn't stop the way his hand moved to clutch at his left arm again, fingers pressed against the mess that had been an anomaly in every clan he'd joined, torn apart every bond he'd foolishly attempted to make. The mark that had always betrayed him more than anything as the one person who would never fit in anywhere, not in all the ways where it mattered the most.

Never, until he'd come here.

“Your personality isn't suited to Homra or Scepter 4,” Hisui continued. “You're best suited to jungle, which honors free will. I knew that from the start, which is why my eyes have always, always been upon you. Jungle is the place you belong...the place where your _soulmate_ is.”

_Soulmate._ The words were like a shock of lightning through him, and Fushimi's fingers dug sharply into his skin, drawing blood.

It was what he had wanted once, wasn't it? To know that tattoo had a match somewhere ( _“My little monkey's just meant to be with me forever!”),_ to know that there was a place where that monstrosity of colors and patterns would not be the thing that drove him away but the thing that held him fast.

_(And yet even so there were still the colors in his mind that wouldn't be erased: Munakata's fathomless galaxy, Mikoto's destructive bonfire, Anna's triumphant rising phoenix. Awashima's delicate bellflowers and Kusanagi's simmering fire, Akiyama's snowflakes and Hidaka's blue sparkles matching the faded memory of whatever had marked Kusuhara Takeru. And above it all, always, Misaki's dancing flames that had seared themselves into his own soul though they would never fit against it, Fushimi's own tattoo that he would sooner cut off rather than lose a single shade of Misaki's vibrant color.)_

Fushimi smiled.

“I guess my answer's clear then.” Fushimi pulled his hand away from his tattoo and pressed it against the screen of his PDA.

_[Open]_

“No thanks.”

As though he could be swayed by such words now, after everything. _Soulmate? A match? Don't make me sick._

There was a flurry of feathers as the bird launched itself into the air and the door began to slide open. Fushimi pocketed his PDA and reached for his knives instead.

It didn't matter. The marks on his arm, the colors of his soul. The decision would be his own, in the end.

_And besides..._ Fushimi's smile widened as the door opened fully, revealing the form of Gojou Sukuna.

_What use does a dead man have for a soulmate?_

–

Fushimi's breath came in short, torn-off gasps as he stumbled behind a pillar, hands shaking. He could hear Sukuna yelling behind him, followed by the sound of crumbling stone.

Fushimi heaved himself forward, ignoring the spike of pain that forced its way up between his ribs. He was bleeding in half a dozen places and bruised in countless others, and there was still a knife sticking out of his thigh. All the while Sukuna's words repeated themselves in his head.

_“Anyone who'd betray their soulmate is--”_

_The worst, right?_ Fushimi laughed silently, daring to peek his head out from around the side of the pillar. He couldn't see Sukuna anywhere but he could still hear the Green clansman somewhere out there in the dark of jungle's hideout, looking for him.

His thigh twitched slightly, involuntarily, and he pressed a hand against it. He could feel the heat beneath even through the fabric of his pants and there was a widening blood stain surrounding it. Fushimi grit his teeth, wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife and with a grunt of pain pulled it out. Immediately the blood began to flow more freely and he nearly stumbled as he took a cautious step forward. He supposed it would have been better to leave the knife there until he could get somewhere safe and find treatment, but for now the weapon was more important than the wound.

He'd exhausted nearly everything he had against Sukuna, most of his knives and all three colors. He felt hollowed out and weak now, barely able to call up even a flame to light his way. His momentary escape had been lucky – Sukuna had been so enraged by Fushimi defying his own 'soulmate' that he'd gotten clumsy and been distracted when one of his own strikes had caused part of the roof to cave in. Fushimi had managed to slip away in the confusion but he hadn't been able to go very far on one good leg and he had no energy reserves left. It was only a matter of time before Sukuna cornered him again, and there would be no escape this time.

Fushimi risked a step forward out of his hiding place, stumbling slightly and keeping one hand on the pillar to hold himself steady.

_Pointless._ It was no use. Even if he knew the way out, there was no way to outrun Sukuna and he could only hide for so long. It was over, at last. Fushimi let himself slide down into a sitting position, knife still clutched in one white hand. This was all he could do, now – wait for Sukuna to come to him, and then fight until the end. One last stand.

Unless, of course, his last contingency arrived. Fushimi felt the bitter smile wind its way across his face. As if he'd ever expected help from that quarter to begin with.

He wasn't Misaki's soulmate. He never had been. So there was really no point in expecting it, that Misaki would risk himself to save someone who had betrayed him again and again, who had done nothing but take Misaki's most precious things and tear them apart one by one. Fushimi wasn't worth saving now, and he knew it. Fushimi leaned his head back and closed his eyes, breathing deep despite the pain settling heavy in his chest.

“Saruhiko!” 

_Misaki?_ He only mouthed the word, entire body jerking up almost instinctively, an automatic reaction to that voice yelling his name. 

“Saruhiko? Where the hell are you, you bastard? Saruhiko!”

Fushimi forced himself up on unsteady legs, injured thigh still trembling and threatening to give out on him at any moment. Even so he stumbled forward out of his hiding spot, every step a struggle as he followed the sound of Misaki's voice.

“Saruhiko!” He could hear Misaki coming nearer now and Fushimi tried to increase his pace, all but dragging his injured leg behind him.

“Oh? A new player?” Sukuna's voice, followed by a cry of pain that was unmistakeably Misaki's and Fushimi felt his blood run cold.

He turned a corner and half-fell behind another partially destroyed pillar. In front of him he could see Sukuna, weapon at the ready and a wide grin on his face. Misaki was there opposite him, dragging himself to his feet after having been apparently thrown through a wall. Misaki's forehead was bleeding but his metal bar was in his hands and his skateboard was still there at his feet.

His tattoo was covered in dust and dirt but even so Fushimi could see those flames shining in the darkness, the red of Misaki's powers reflecting off the color of his arm.

“Bastard...where the hell is Saruhiko?” Misaki's eyes were on fire too, his face grim and set. Fushimi couldn't help but stare at him, mesmerized as if he was a child again looking at those dancing flames that still haunted his dreams.

Misaki had come for him. Despite everything Fushimi had done, despite the fact that they weren't a match, would never be a match, Misaki had come for him.

Fushimi's eyes scanned the floor beyond where Sukuna and Misaki stood, piles of rubble and half-destroyed pillars and there not too far out of range, a doorway. 

It would be difficult to reach, with his leg being what it was. But it _was_ reachable – with Sukuna distracted and so many spots to hide himself in if necessary it wouldn't be outside of the realm of possibility that he could reach that door without being spotted. He only needed to leave Misaki to take care of Sukuna and Fushimi would be able to escape.

“Saruhiko? Why do you care about that traitor, huh?” Sukuna taunted and Fushimi found his gaze turning back towards Misaki, always towards Misaki. 

“I don't have time to play with kids,” Misaki said, swinging his metal bar around. His hands seemed almost white even with the distance between them, tight on his weapon, and Fushimi crawled forward on his hands and knees. “Tell me what you bastards did with Saruhiko.”

“Maybe you're too late,” Sukuna sneered. “It's already game over for him. But if you wanna take over as new player, I'll be happy to take you down too.”

“If you assholes laid even one hand on Saruhiko, I swear I'll--” Misaki barely finished speaking before Sukuna swung his weapon again. Misaki just managed to dodge, bringing up his own weapon to block the strike. 

“What's wrong?” Sukuna taunted. “Your level isn't high enough for this kind of rescue mission!”

Fushimi heard Misaki swear, saw green light flash before his eyes as Misaki desperately tried to parry Sukuna's attacks. Despite the fact that his full concentration should have been on the enemy in front of him Misaki's eyes were darting nervously back and forth, as though looking for someone, and Fushimi froze.

Misaki was looking for _him._

_Why?_ Fushimi's fists clenched against the hard floor. They weren't soulmates. Misaki was risking his life coming here – risking everything, just to save someone who had never been meant to be with him in the first place. The proof of it was clear, marked out on Fushimi's bared left arm in shapes and colors and in that replicated pattern that had fit so smoothly into Hisui Nagare's faded mark.

“Too slow!” Sukuna's voice made Fushimi look up again, not even able to so much as yell a warning as Misaki dodged a second too late and Sukuna's scythe sunk into his shoulder. Misaki clumsily stumbled away, blood darkening one sleeve, and Fushimi's entire body started to shake. Misaki was breathing hard but he had still managed to keep his grip on his weapon.

“Give it up,” Sukuna laughed. “You're not getting out of here this time. It's too late to reset to the last save point. You and Saruhiko are both gonna pay for standing up against Nagare.”

“Shut up, game brat.” Misaki was supporting himself on his metal bar as he spoke, voice grim and serious. “I don't know what the fuck you did with Saruhiko, but I'm not giving up until I find that asshole and get him out of here.”

“Why does it matter to you?” Sukuna said. “You guys aren't even a match! That guy...” Sukuna grit his teeth. “Why does a traitor like Saruhiko get to be Nagare's soulmate?”

Fushimi saw Misaki stiffen slightly and there was something almost...stricken in his expression, as though the words had been a physical blow.

“What? You didn't know?” Sukuna snickered. “That's right. You came all this way to save _the Green King's soulmate.”_

“Hey. Brat.” Misaki's voice was colder than Fushimi could ever remember hearing it before. “Say that again and I'll kick your ass.”

“You don't even--” Sukuna started again and was cut off by Misaki's determined voice.

“There's no way your shitty King is anything like that guy's soulmate.” Misaki's eyes were shining and the flames on his arm danced again as his weapon lit up red, fire and shadows. “And even if he was I don't give a crap about that. I came here to bring Saruhiko back, and I'm not leaving without him.”

Fushimi felt like there was something beginning to close around his throat as the world squeezed tight around him and his breathing sped up, palms clammy against the floor, unable to tear his gaze away from Misaki.

He risked moving forward again and in that same moment Misaki's head jerked up slightly, and their eyes met.

Fushimi paused, angling his left arm away almost unconsciously. Misaki wasn't even looking at that, though – Misaki's gaze instead rested for just a moment on the bloody stains on Fushimi's thigh, starting there and then sweeping the rest of his body as if looking for more injuries. There was a brief flash of relief in his eyes for a moment that was so clear and open it made Fushimi's whole body shudder.

_Misaki..._ And then, something like a resigned smile on Misaki's face as he inclined his head towards the direction of the door.

“Come and get me, brat!” That locked gaze broke, and Misaki ran at Sukuna without a moment's hesitation.

Fushimi sat there frozen, eyes darting towards the open doorway and then back to Misaki and Sukuna, red and green flashing through the air as they fought. Sukuna's entire attention was still on Misaki, not having even realized that Fushimi was there. If he wanted to escape, now was the time.

“You're not getting away!” Sukuna's angry yell was followed immediately by the unmistakeable sound of skateboard wheels. Misaki had just managed to get ahead of his opponent and was clearly attempting to put some distance between them. There wasn't enough room for him to maneuver, though, and Sukuna was close behind him, weapon bright and deadly as it cut through the air.

Fushimi found himself standing up on shaking legs, hands darting into his pockets. Only a few knives left. He pulled out three, held them between his fingers and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to call out the blue power that he knew was still sleeping deep inside him.

The knives began to glow, slightly – it wouldn't last long, and the shield would barely be strong enough to hold Sukuna back for more than a few seconds. But it would be enough for Misaki to get out of range, and that was all he needed.

Fushimi gathered up all his remaining strength, ignoring the way the wound in his thigh burned, ignoring the way his entire body shook with exhaustion, and ran forward.

“You're mine!” Sukuna raised his scythe, aiming for Misaki's exposed back, and Fushimi threw himself between them, tossing the knives in his hands towards the floor.

“Saruhiko!” A wall of blue burst up between them and Fushimi felt a rough hand grabbing onto his coat, dragging him backwards as the blue shield began to crack.

There was a momentary feeling of dizziness, black dots flashing in front of his eyes before he found himself draped over strong shoulders, pulled onto Misaki's back as the two of them retreated down the nearest tunnel together. 

“Saruhiko, you still alive? Hey, Saruhiko!” Misaki's voice sounded part angry and part frantic, and Fushimi forced his eyes open.

Misaki was holding him, one hand tightening over his left wrist and yet Misaki wasn't even looking there at all – hadn't even bothered to spare a glance for that bared left arm and that mark that he had never even seen, never had any proof was there at all. Misaki was looking at his face again, all worry and open concern and a hint of anger, and above all a steady determination.

“You're late...” The words were hoarse and weary from Fushimi's mouth, and he could barely get them out with his mind still whirling, with Misaki's gaze still on his face and not on his arm.

They weren't a match, and there was the proof at last for Misaki to see.

But Misaki had come for him anyway. 

–

Sukuna's yell faded away as he fell down into darkness, and Fushimi found his legs sliding out from under him.

“H-hey, Saruhiko!” Misaki nearly caught him before falling back himself, his own legs shaking as the two of them laid down side by side in the rubble. The ground felt cold and uncomfortable beneath Fushimi's back but he felt too weary to even sit up.

Fushimi found his gaze immediately drawn towards where Misaki lay there beside him, breathing heavily and staring up at the ceiling with one hand thrown over his forehead. There was still a dark red stain over his shoulder but there wasn't more than the slightest tremble to his movement. 

Misaki turned his head suddenly and then they were face to face, and at last Misaki's eyes slid down to Fushimi's left arm.

Fushimi's left arm, with the tattoo completely visible – patterns that didn't fit, colors that clashed, nothing that made any sense at all, and in between the colors all the scars and marks that he'd made with his own hands. Fushimi's left arm, that was lying almost side by side with Misaki's right and panic shot through Fushimi as he he tried to force his exhausted body to move, to turn away and pull close that marking that he'd never intended anyone to see, least of all Misaki.

Misaki simply reached out, grabbed him by the hand, and held onto him.

“You don't have to hide it, Saruhiko.” Misaki's voice was slightly hushed, an emotion Fushimi couldn't even begin to place darkening his eyes. Despite that there was the beginnings of a smile hovering about his lips. “I knew you had one.”

“Shut up.” The words came out harsher than intended and Fushimi tried to pull away again, but Misaki's hand held him tight. He let his head fall back, clicking his tongue. “You weren't supposed to see it, idiot.”

“Why not? It's cool.” Misaki rolled over just a little so that Fushimi could see his face fully and his hand tightened over Fushimi's, their fingers still entwined despite everything in Fushimi's body screaming at him to run. “It's really cool, Saruhiko.”

_(“But still, Fushimi...it really is pretty, you know. Your arm.” The echo of a ghost from long ago, empty words he'd never been able to make himself believe. It wasn't red flames, wasn't a dancing fire that would meld easily into Misaki's, so there was no way it could ever be anything like 'pretty,' anything like 'cool.')_

“It's a mess,” Fushimi said darkly. “It doesn't...fit.” He spat out the last word, as if holding it in his mouth too long would burn him.

“That's your problem, Saruhiko. You're always deciding this stuff for yourself.” There was something exasperated in Misaki's tone that Fushimi felt he should have understood and couldn't. “You _always_ fit. See? A match.”

Misaki raised his right arm then, Fushimi's hand still clasped tightly in his, and for just a moment Fushimi could see it.

Where their arms met, a perfect match.

Then Fushimi realized what he was looking at, and his eyes narrowed.

“That's not a match, you idiot.” He could hear the resignation thick in his own voice. “Look closer. It's not...our marks don't match at all.”

Misaki's flames, red and vibrant on his arm, and the spot where he and Fushimi matched: the scar on Fushimi's wrist, where he had pressed his fingers against the red of his tattoo and then held them there until the real marking had been burned away.

It wasn't a true match at all and Fushimi felt as though the weight that should have been lifted by such certainty had only grown heavier. All the spots where his tattoo met Misaki's were nothing but a clash of colors, a mess that didn't fit no matter how hard he looked at it.

And the only spots that did: burns and scars, the marks left behind by his hands, not his soul.

“It's a match,” Misaki repeated, forcefully, and there was half a laugh in his voice. 

“No it isn't.” Fushimi made himself sit up, his eyes cold and his entire body shaking. “Look at it properly, you idiot. We don't match at all. We're not...” His eyes burned. “We aren't soulmates, Misaki.”

“Don't call me an idiot.” Misaki sat up as well, faced him, expression determined and unshakeable. His hand tightened over Fushimi's and pulled it closer. “I think I know my own soulmate, Saruhiko.”

Fushimi couldn't reply, could only stare silently as Misaki brought the hand still held in his up to his face and gently pressed his lips against the burn mark on Fushimi's wrist.

_(Somewhere deep inside, Munakata's voice echoed:“And in the end, perhaps the_ true _match lies in finding a pattern where one does not exist,”and Fushimi wondered if Misaki had always known.)_

Not a match, nothing like a match, but Misaki wouldn't let go of his hand. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of an epilogue I guess, but I hope everyone likes it ^^ Please enjoy the smut and feelings.

**V. Kaleidoscope**

“Are you sure this is okay?”

“Mmm.” It wasn't quite an affirmative, but Misaki seemed to take it as one anyway.

The lights were low in the bedroom they shared and Fushimi sat on the bed with his knees drawn up, waiting. They'd done this three times now, in darkened rooms and shadow-lit doorways, clothes half on or hidden under sheets, nothing bared that he didn't wish to be seen. This was a compromise, this time.

Misaki crawled towards him, hands and knees, arms bare to the elbows. His flames flickered in the dim light, reflected in his half-lidded eyes. He leaned forward, one hand gently touching Fushimi's cheek and tilting his head downward into a kiss.

_(“We aren't a match, Misaki.” Fushimi was lying in a bed in the Scepter 4 infirmary, leg propped up on pillows, torso swathed in bandages beneath his loose robe. There was still one blue glove worn over his left arm, stubbornly, and Misaki sat in a chair beside him. “I told you that already.”_

_“And_ I _told_ you, _I know my own soulmate.” Misaki's voice was low, thick with frustration. “Why do you have to be so damn stubborn about this, Saruhiko?”_

_“I'm not the stubborn one,” Fushimi shot back coldly. “You're an idiot, Misaki. Don't talk to me about such stupid things, 'soulmates,' 'a match.' We aren't. We never were.” His blood was pounding hard in his ears, heartbeat like a steel drum. “I don't have a soulmate, remember?”_

_Misaki looked stricken for a moment, as Fushimi had intended, and Fushimi wondered if he would leave._

_“I don't get you, Saruhiko.” Misaki stood, fists clenched. “You saw it too, right? There was match there.”_

_“It wasn't our tattoos that matched, Misaki, and you know it.” Fushimi's hand unconsciously moved to his left sleeve. “Stop being such an idiot. Just because Mikoto-san is gone, don't try to make me your second choice.” Bitterness, deep in the pit of his stomach. “I won't be your soulmate just because the man who made you believe in them is gone.”)_

“Saruhiko...” Misaki's breath was warm and wavering against his mouth, lips grasping for his as Misaki's hands ran down the length of his body, pressing into the folds and crevices of his clothes searching for the bare skin beneath.

Fushimi didn't answer, only inclined his head more, returning the kiss warily as if he expected Misaki to pull away at any moment. Misaki always felt so warm against him, heat against the perpetual chill of his skin, almost enough to drive the frozen feeling in his chest away -- those burning flames, always, wrapping around him and pulling him close.

Misaki kissed him again, long and slow and _deep,_ and Fushimi whimpered a bit into his mouth as Misaki's hands worked their way under his clothes and pulled them off. Misaki was already half-naked himself, bare chest against Fushimi's, and there was a thin sheen of sweat where skin met skin.

But Misaki didn't touch the glove on his left arm.

_(“Why are you still here?” Every day for a week, Misaki came to see him in the infirmary. Every day another refusal, another fight, and Fushimi didn't see the point of it at all. They wouldn't ever be what he wanted, no matter how much either of them wished it._

_“Saruhiko...what you said the other day...” Misaki looked nervous but determined, one hand hooked around his right wrist, fingers against the spot where that tattoo began, and Fushimi's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to it every time. “About Mikoto-san, making me believe in soulmates. Do you really think that?”_

_“Why shouldn't I?” Fushimi said. “I won't be his replacement, Misaki.”_

_“What the hell makes you think that's all you are to me?” Misaki demanded, angry. “Saruhiko...yeah, I believe in soulmates now. And – and it was cool, when I saw that me and Mikoto-san were similar, when I saw we kinda matched. But I started to believe in soulmates way before that.” He met Fushimi's eyes fearlessly, heart held out on his sleeve along with those dancing flames. “I started believing in them as soon as I realized how much I wanted you to be mine.”)_

“Lay back.” Misaki's words were low, choked out with clear nervousness, but Fushimi did as told. The bed was soft against his back, bare skin still slightly sore and bruised from the fight in jungle weeks ago. But Misaki was looking straight at him as though he was the whole world, eyes traveling the length of his body as Misaki's hands carefully removed the remainder of his clothes, all but the blue glove on his arm.

There were three shallow wooden bowls on the end table, along with a small tube of lubricant. Misaki took that first, fumbling slightly and Fushimi smirked, biting back a comment about fluttering virgins. Misaki's other hand dipped into each of the bowls, fingers brushing against the contents of each.

Paint: red, green, and blue on each one of Misaki's fingers, the color leaving streaks on the tube as he opened it and spread the lube across his clean hand. He leaned over Fushimi and kissed him again, and where the fingers of Misaki's left hand brushed against his skin there were marks left behind, streaks of color to trace the track of his fingers as they kneaded softly into Fushimi's side.

Misaki's other hand moved lower, circling Fushimi's entrance carefully, and Misaki never broke eye contact as he slipped one finger inside. Fushimi tensed slightly at the feeling, that unexpected rush of pain and stretch that he was still learning to get used to. He could see the line of Misaki's obvious erection through his pants and Fushimi's own cock twitched as Misaki pushed another finger inside.

_(In front of his room this time, Misaki with one arm out against the open doorway as if to block the expected retreat, and Fushimi wondered darkly who kept letting him into Scepter 4._

Probably the Captain _, and Fushimi tried to shut the door in Misaki's face. Misaki grabbed at the edge though, held it, and there was a moment of tension before Fushimi gave in and stepped back inside his room with Misaki following._

_“Are you ever going to really talk to me?” Misaki asked quietly. Fushimi didn't look at him, moving to sit on the bottom bunk. The mattress dipped slightly as Misaki sat beside him, right arm inches from Fushimi's covered left._

_“I already did,” Fushimi said shortly. “It was stupid. Me, your soulmate? Don't be an idiot, Misaki._ This... _” He inclined his left arm. “It's not what you think it is.”_

_“I'm not just gonna give up on you that easily,” Misaki said, stubborn, always stubborn. “If you don't want me to be here because you don't want_ me _that's fine. Tell me that. But I'm not leaving just because of your arm.”_

_“You should,” Fushimi said. “That's what matters, isn't it? That mark, and the place where it meets yours.”_

_“Is that really what made you leave me?” Misaki asked plainly, and Fushimi didn't reply. Misaki sighed, frustrated. “Saruhiko...how am I supposed to understand anything if you won't say it? I'm not a damn mind reader. And neither are you, if you think that thing on your arm is what really mattered to me all this time.”_

_“That's what you said, once.” Fushimi hunched his shoulders, hands clenching. “'We don't need soulmates,' right? We were just naive children, Misaki. I've learned better.”_

_“No.” Misaki gave him a small smile, almost sad, and it made Fushimi tense as Misaki's hand pressed over his. “We were both stupid kids, okay, I know that, and yeah, I've grown too. But what I said then hasn't changed, you know? It's still you and me. It's still_ us.”)

A third finger, and Fushimi bit his lip against the slight press of pain. It was gone a moment later, melted into pleasure as Misaki's searching fingers brushed against his prostate.

“Saruhiko.” Misaki's breath was warm, so warm on his skin, hot wind across a tundra. His other hand brushed against Fushimi's thighs, circling red along the outer curve and then a trail of blue and green just near the base of Fushimi's erection.

Fushimi didn't reply, only arched his back a little, letting Misaki widen him. His breathing came in short gasps, fingers twitching, and he was hyper aware of the glove that still covered his left arm. Misaki wasn't looking there at all – mouth and hands all over the rest of his body instead, tongue tasting the curve of his neck and free hand brushing against his hip, three fingers inside moving in scissoring motions, teasing his prostate and making small shocks of pleasure run through him.

“Misaki...” The word finally broke its way out of his throat. “Now. I want...”

Misaki's fingers inside him paused and then were removed. Misaki's eyes shone in the dim light as he leaned back to remove his own pants, moving slowly as if taking in the sight of Fushimi spread out on the sheets beneath him. Fushimi could see the small streaks of paint on his own legs, his sides, physical traces of where Misaki's hands had touched him, made their mark. Shadow and color, and Misaki.

Misaki's fingers dipped into the paint again, both hands now as he positioned himself between Fushimi's legs. Misaki's left hand grasped onto the edge of Fushimi's glove and Fushimi's whole body quivered slightly with his desire to keep still, breath catching as Misaki slid inside at the exact moment he removed the glove and bared Fushimi's soul to the open air.

The burns were still there, and the old scars, along with the red and green and blue. Fushimi bit his lip, neck angled back as he felt Misaki push inside of him and the feeling of pain and heat and _fullness_ that accompanied the first slow merging of one body into another.

“Move.” The word was an unsteady breath, throat bared as he spoke and Misaki's kiss gentle against his skin. Fingers gripped his sides, tracing low along his hips, red and blue and green all mixing and mingling as Misaki's fingers scrambled for a hold on clammy skin.

“Saruhiko.” Misaki whispered his name against the skin of his neck, tongue moving downward to suck clumsily at his nipples. Fushimi only moaned softly in reply, body unraveling and unbound beneath Misaki's hands, hips bucking involuntarily as Misaki thrust inside him in a slow steady rhythm.

One hand reached for his left arm, fingers coloring the already mixed pattern on his skin, and Misaki's fingertips brushed against his.

“It's so beautiful.” Misaki's breath burning at his skin as Misaki kissed the scars, another thrust and another wave of pleasure. “It's really fucking beautiful, you know that, idiot?”

_(“It's going to be a mistake.” In a cafe, across from each other. Their hands didn't meet and neither did their eyes, Fushimi staring down into his coffee cup. “Nothing good comes from a wrong match, Misaki. You should know that better than anyone.”_

_“We're a match to_ me, _” Misaki replied, hands playing idly with the straw of his milkshake. “And you know...my mom used to say she didn't regret having a wrong match, not really. Because if it wasn't for that she wouldn't have me, and she said she wouldn't trade that for a hundred perfect matches.”_

_“I see idiocy runs in the family, then.”_

_“What the fuck, Saruhiko, don't talk shit about my mom!” Misaki almost stood, then fell back into his chair with a sigh. “I don't want somebody whose arms are gonna match mine. I want you, Saruhiko. From the start, it's always been you.”_

_“People will talk.” The next line of defense, the next wall to break down, and Fushimi kept his gaze fixed on his drink._

_Don't hope. Don't expect anything. A wrong match is only that._

_“Let them,”Misaki said with such ferocity in his tone that Fushimi finally looked up to see eyes burning hotter than those – perfect – red flames. “Since when the hell do you care what other people think anyway?”_

_“You might. Eventually.”_

_“I won't,” Misaki said, forceful. “If all the other shit you pulled didn't change my mind, why should this?”_

_The next wall, and Fushimi tensed._

_“Exactly, Misaki. A soulmate...wouldn't have done the things I did to you.” He could feel the lump building up in his throat, unexpected. Fushimi took a quick drink of his coffee, letting it scald his throat in place of the unwanted emotion._

_Don't wish. Don't hope. All of it will blow away, so don't you dare reach out that hand.)_

“It's a wreck.” Just like he was, falling to pieces under Misaki's touch, hands and lips against flushed skin as Misaki moved inside of him.

“It's not.” Misaki kissed him again, gentle even as his thrusts grew faster, rougher, and Fushimi let another moan escape his lips. Misaki's hand reached up and cupped his cheek, blue and red streaked on his face. “Damn it, Saruhiko...when are you gonna see yourself the way I see you?”

Fushimi couldn't answer him, reaching up and hooking his arms around Misaki's neck instead, burying his face in Misaki's collar as Misaki continued moving steadily inside of him. He could hear Misaki's breath in his ears growing faster, his words half lost in pants and whimpers. Misaki's hands 

scrambled for a hold, marks like tattoos along his back, trailing down to his sides and holding him steady as Misaki hit that spot deep inside him again and Fushimi arched his back with another breathy moan.

“Saruhiko...” Misaki's mouth, hot and wet in a clumsy kiss that was nonetheless filled with nothing but unrestrained desire _._ Fushimi remembered that day in the apartment so long ago, the stray thought that if only he could take those lips in his they'd understand each other at last.

A foolish child's hope, now – he didn't understand Misaki, still, didn't understand how Misaki could kiss those marks and call them beautiful, how Misaki could take Fushimi in his arms and hold him close and _fill_ him this completely. Even as their bodies fit together so neatly he still couldn't forget that mismatch in the one place it was supposed to count.

Misaki moaned his name again, barely keeping control. Fushimi could feel the word vibrating against Misaki's throat and he didn't need to understand anything else. They were together. That was enough.

_(“I'm not fit to be anyone's soulmate.” The truth he'd always known. Maybe once he might have deserved it, Misaki's trust, Misaki's affection, but he wasn't a child anymore. He'd already destroyed too much to expect forgiveness, much less anything more._

_“If you want to say you're sorry, idiot, just say it.” Misaki smiled ruefully. “And—and I am too, you know. For...for what I said that day. I was pissed off and...I'm sorry.”_

_He didn't have to clarify what he meant, and Fushimi couldn't stop the slight hitch in his breathing._

_“It was the truth though, right?” Fushimi muttered, looking away. “You can't keep up this fantasy that we're meant for each other forever, Misaki. Someday...” His throat burned, and he told himself it was only the coffee. “Someday you'll find a real match.”_

_“So I'll tell them too bad,” Misaki stated. “I meant what I said when we were kids, you know. It's you and me. I don't care if I meet some stupid 'perfect' match. You're the only one I want to be with till the end.”_

_“Don't be a moron.” Fushimi's shoulders hunched, fingers arched like claws around his cup. “You'd give up a perfect match, for what? You should know better than anyone what kind of person I am. I'll destroy you too, the same as everything else. I won't let you do that to yourself, Misaki.”_

_“I don't need you to_ let _me do anything, Saruhiko.” Misaki reached out and grabbed his hand, so sudden and determined that Fushimi couldn't even pull away. “Yeah, I know what you're like. You're a stupid stubborn asshole, you complain about everything and you can't say anything honestly to save your life. I know that and guess what? I don't give a crap, Saruhiko. If it was a choice between a million people with arms that fit exactly into mine or you, I'd choose you. Every time, I'm gonna choose you. So...so can you trust me already?”_

_“If we were soulmates, you wouldn't have to ask,” Fushimi said, pulling away._

_“You sure know a lot about soulmates for a guy who says he hasn't got one,” Misaki said archly and Fushimi glared at him. Misaki sighed. “You know, Saruhiko, maybe if you stopped worrying all the time about what soulmates are_ supposed _to be like you'd be a lot better off. Who said soulmates can't ever disagree or fight or do stupid shit to each other, huh? My mom always told me my soulmate wasn't gonna to the person I never fought with – it'd be the person I wanted to be with_ even though _we fought, because whatever the hell we were fighting about wasn't as important as making up afterward. I want to be with you, Saruhiko. We—we can at least give it a_ try, _right?”_

_Fushimi bit his lip and looked down, what he wanted warring with what he'd convinced himself he could never have._

_“I...I'm...” Fushimi clicked his tongue in irritation, the words stuck in his throat, refusing to be spoken. Even so he heard Misaki give a small laugh, sounding almost_ happy _as though even that worthless attempt had been enough. He looked up finally, met Misaki's eyes. “All right, Misaki. I'll try. You're going to regret it, but I'll try.”_

_“I'm not going to regret it,” Misaki said, and somehow Fushimi believed him.)_

Fushimi's head fell back against the bed, legs spread wide and Misaki's hands steadying themselves on his shoulders, Misaki's face bright red with heat and exertion, something like sweat still dripping down his cheeks. 

“Fuck...Saruhiko, I'm gonna...” Misaki gasped out as he continued to thrust roughly in and out of Fushimi's body. One hand reached out, blindly, and Fushimi grasped it in his own, paint staining his fingers green and red and blue, pattern against pattern as he rocked his hips forward in time with Misaki's movements.

“Misaki...” It was a lifeline, a heartbeat, and Fushimi's back arched again, taking Misaki in deeper than before, exhausted and exhilarated and Misaki mapped all over his body in streaks of color. “Misaki... _Misaki_...”

_(Their first time was clumsy and awkward, hands everywhere, heat and haze, slammed against the wall just inside the door to Misaki's apartment. Misaki was a little bit drunk and Fushimi thought he might have been too – a little bit drunk and a little bit everything all at once, pressing down into Misaki's kiss as Misaki's hands entangled themselves in his hair. Fushimi kept his shirt on and Misaki only unzipped his pants, sucking on his fingers for a moment to get them slick with saliva before pressing them inside. It was quick and messy, barely preparation at all, but Fushimi couldn't bring himself to care, caught in the moment. Misaki reached for Fushimi's left sleeve and Fushimi guided that hand downwards to touch between his legs instead._

_And then that rush of being filled, a little bit of pain but even so Fushimi braced himself on the wall and pushed backwards with his hips to take Misaki in more fully, Misaki's mouth trailing kisses up his neck._

_“Does this feel good?” “Yes,” and “Don't stop,” and pressed against the wall with fingers splayed and arms bent, body all sharp angles, shaking with each thrust from behind him and Misaki's fingers digging into his hips to hold him steady._

_“I'm sorry.” Torn from his throat at last and all but gasped out, head half turned and panting breathless as Misaki leaned forward over his shoulder. “I'm sorry, Misaki, I'm–”_

_He felt Misaki laugh, so close Fushimi's body hummed with the contact, anything else he could have said cut off by Misaki's tongue meeting his in a desperate frenzy of mutual desire._

“From the start, it's always been you.”

_Misaki's words, still there in the back of his mind, and Fushimi returned that kiss with a ferocity even he hadn't expected._

Me too. _The words were swallowed in panting breaths, in gasps and whimpers and the sound of shifting clothes and the slapping of skin on skin, but Fushimi thought maybe Misaki could still hear them anyway._ Me too.

_For me, it's always, always been you_. _)_

Misaki's gave a wordless cry as he came, one hand closing tightly over Fushimi's left arm and leaving only marks of color behind. Misaki was breathing hard still, hair soaked with sweat and his bangs falling over his face. 

Fushimi felt strangely _alive,_ every touch a fire underneath his skin as Misaki emptied himself inside Fushimi's body. Misaki's right hand reached down to stroke Fushimi's length and the sight of those red flames against the sensitive skin between his legs was enough to push Fushimi over the edge as well, his whole body shaking with the force of his own climax, Misaki's name on his lips and Misaki's body pressed so close on top of him that Fushimi could feel every breath, every heartbeat.

“S...Saruhiko...” Misaki was still struggling for words as he slowly pulled out, flopping boneless and limp beside Fushimi on the bed. His hands were still a rainbow of colors and his right hand entwined itself in Fushimi's left, letting their marks press together.

Fushimi gave Misaki another weary kiss, too tired to even get up and shower despite paint covering his white skin and the unpleasant stickiness between his thighs. Misaki's hand tightened over his, as if afraid Fushimi could pull away at any moment, and so Fushimi leaned in closer instead.

Their marks didn't match, would never match, not even now, and they both knew it. Even so one of Fushimi's legs entwined around Misaki's and Misaki pressed close against his chest, lips brushing against the scar on his collar.

Two marks and two bodies entwined together, into a single shadow.


End file.
